When Worlds Collide
by elfinblue
Summary: When a kidnapped Tony DiNozzo is rescued by legendary - and supposedly dead - serial killers Dean and Sam Winchester, the NCIS team takes over the Winchester investigation. What they find is a file filled with contradictions and impossibilities. This is an attempt to cross these shows but keep both in canon. No slash. No pairings.
1. Meet The Outlaws

When Worlds Collide

by elfinblue

Author's Note: I don't actually have TV at my house - haven't for years. There are only a handful of shows I have even a passing familiarity with and only two, Supernatural and NCIS, that I actually follow. (Not counting BBC's Sherlock, which is taking for freaking EVER to resolve the Reichenbach Fall cliffhanger!) I love reading everyone's fanfiction and I really enjoy the crossover stories, but I've noticed that all SPN-NCIS crossovers eventually go AU for at least one, if not both, shows. I thought it would be fun to try to write a crossover that stayed canon for both series.

This does not mean there will be no supernatural in the part of the story written from an NCIS point of view. McGee firmly believes that "ghosts aren't real" ("Hit and Run"), but Abby has premonitory dreams ("Bete Noire"; "Twilight"); Ziva's Mossad training allows for the unexplained ("Chimera"); Kate Todd ("Kill Ari, pts 1 and 2") and Mike Franks ("Pyramid") both walked through their own murder investigations; and Gibbs' gut is never wrong (many episodes). But I'm going to stay true to canon as much as I possibly can and try to write only that which you could conceivably see on-screen.

I'm setting this season ten-ish for NCIS and season eight-ish for Supernatural, no specific timeline but just to be on the safe side, expect spoilers for all aired episodes of both series. To start, I'm planning to alternate point-of-view between the two shows, starting with an NCIS chapter and following with a Supernatural chapter. Later, they will probably get to where they share chapters. Will feature mainly Dean and Sam on the SPN side, but Cas (if he turns up okay soon), Charlie, Garth, Kevin and his mom and even Benny might make appearances. For NCIS, this will be a team fic even though the first chapter is just going to be Tony.

Okay, long note done now. I hope that if you survived this far, you'll give my story a shot, and thanks for reading!

RATED: T (But nothing you wouldn't see on one show or the other.)

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, but if The Powers That Be are feeling generous, I'll take Dean. :)

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

Chapter One: Meet The Outlaws

The first thing that Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo became aware of, when he regained consciousness, was dust. He could smell it and feel it under his hands and taste it in the back of his throat.

That quickly led to his second realization, which was that he was desperately thirsty. He moved feebly, still not truly aware of his surroundings, and discovered two more things. He was bound and he was in pain. After that he lay very still for a very long time, controlling his breathing and waiting out the pounding agony that spiked through his head, like someone trying to drive a pickax through his skull from the inside. When at last the pain died down and the flashing lights behind his eyelids settled, he opened his eyes, slowly and cautiously, and took stock of his surroundings.

It wasn't an encouraging exercise.

He lay on his back, spread-eagled on the moldy old mattress of a rusty iron bed. His shoes were gone and his wrists and stockinged feet were handcuffed to the bedposts. He still had his belt and, therefore, he still had the knife hidden in his belt buckle, but his cell phone and his guns (both his sidearm and his clutch piece) were gone.

The bed he lay on was in a room in what appeared to be a long-abandoned farmhouse. The ceiling was cracked and water stained, with chunks of plaster fallen here and there, exposing the bare laths underneath. Strips of ancient wallpaper hung from the walls, generations of spiderwebs filled the corners and dust lay thick everywhere. There was a window in the room, but from where he lay his view was restricted to a swath of mist-shrouded mountain ridge and a strip of blue sky.

The sun slanted down into the room, casting substantial shadows but not long ones. So either mid morning or mid afternoon. He was in the country somewhere. There were no sounds of civilization at all, not even traffic in the far distance or airplanes passing overhead. Somewhere close by a bird was singing. It looked like a beautiful spring day outside and Tony really didn't want to die.

He'd been following a suspected terrorist, he remembered, but the surveillance had become a trap. He shuddered at the memory of being surrounded, three-to-one. Big men, with big weapons and preternaturally black eyes, an image he put down to head trauma.

If he could find something solid and slender, he could try picking the locks on the handcuffs. There was a spring poking him through the rotting fabric of the mattress that he thought might do, but he wasn't able to contort enough to reach it. The attempt left him nearly blacked out again and gasping his way through flashing lights and new spikes of pain in his head.

In the end, there was really nothing he could do but lay back, breathe through the pain once more, and hope like hell that Gibbs was looking for him.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS_

He heard the car coming long before it arrived. It was a muscle car, he could tell that just by the sound of the engine. For one wild, heart-racing moment, he thought maybe it was Gibbs in his '71 Dodge Challenger, but this car was bigger than that. It paused a short distance away and there was a sound of voices and a groaning as of a metal gate being wrenched aside, then a car door slammed and the vehicle pulled up, circled the old house and stopped almost underneath the window of the room where Tony was held prisoner. The car's motor purred like a well-fed cat, the sound reverberating off the nearby hills, and he was hit by a strong pang of longing for his own long-destroyed '66 Ford Mustang.

The car was turned off. Two doors creaked open, then slammed shut. There was another light creak, like a well-oiled hinge, and the indistinct sound of voices. Metal clanked and rattled and he caught the distinct ratchet of a shotgun being loaded. Another door slammed - the trunk lid? Strong, confident steps approached the house, and Tony took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself for whatever was to come.

_You can do this,_ he told himself. _You've been tortured by a terrorist. You've been thrown out of an airplane. You kissed a transvestite and you survived the plague. You can survive this._

In a room beyond the room Tony was in, a door to the outside opened and the men came in. Their voices were clearer now and he could make out the occasional word. They were Americans. From the Midwest? Maybe? Kansas by way of Texas and South Dakota with a little bit of everything else thrown in. There were two of them, a light tenor modulating into a rich baritone and a deeper, rougher growl.

". . . check up here?"

One set of steps receded, the other approached, old, wooden floorboards creaking in protest. Tony DiNozzo watched the doorway, tensed, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the man who entered, relaxed but alert, gun held in casual readiness.

The air left Tony's lungs as if he'd been punched and he felt the blood drain from his face. The man was a few years younger than Tony, early- to mid-thirties. He stood just over six feet tall, with spiky, golden-brown hair and deep green eyes. He wore ragged blue jeans and a blue and white plaid flannel shirt over a faded black AC/DC tee shirt. And he was handsome. That was one of the things they always said about him. He was handsome and charming and merciless and deadly. And dead.

Immediately, Tony tried to school his features. A fugitive murderer who is off the radar only because he is believed to be dead has no reason to release a federal agent who knows he is not, and every reason in the world to silence him. He could tell, though, that the effort was futile. Dean Winchester was a lot of things, but one thing he was never accused of being was a fool.

Winchester's eyes narrowed as he took in Tony and his predicament. He checked out the rest of the room quickly, glanced out the window, even stooped to look under the bed, leading with his firearm. Then he stood straight, sighed, tucked his weapon into the back of his jeans and gave Tony a rueful grin.

"Sorry, are we interrupting something?"

DiNozzo could do charming and deadly himself, and he returned the smile with one that didn't reach his eyes.

"Not at all. Glad you could join me."

Heavy boots approached and Sam Winchester, Dean's younger, larger, and equally vicious brother came in the room already talking. His voice was the tenor.

"Hey, down in the basement I -" he saw Tony and broke off mid-sentence. "Oh. Oops." He took a minute to regroup and Tony could practically see the wheels turning in his head. When he spoke again his voice was a little too innocent. "Gosh, _Bob_, there's a guy chained to a bed in here!"

Dean rolled his eyes, spread his hands and gave Tony a helpless shrug. "He got a full ride to Stanford. Can you believe it?" He spoke over his shoulder, addressing his brother. "He's a federal agent, genius. He already recognized me. He knows who we are."

"Oh." Sam lifted one shoulder. "Okay. Awkward."

"Yeah." Dean moved up closer to the head of the bed. "So, what are we looking at here? The aftermath of a bad bust or a good party?"

Tony matched him, casual nonchalance for casual nonchalance. "Unfortunately, it's been a long time since I went to a party that good."

"I hear ya." Dean reached out. Tony flinched away, but Winchester only ran a surprisingly gentle hand over his head, feeling the knot there. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Tony didn't answer, but Dean didn't seem to expect him to. He simply leaned in and watched the agent's eyes, gauging their ability to focus. He brushed his thumb across Tony's left eye.

"Gonna have a shiner. Know your name?"

For a second Tony balked, but then he thought, what the hell? There was nothing to be gained by lying. If he was going to die, he wanted to at least die under his own name.

"Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo," he said.

"FBI?" Sam asked.

"No. Oh, God no!" Tony responded without even thinking about it and drew chuckles from both brothers. "I'm with NCIS. We're –"

"Navy cops," Dean finished.

"Yeah. You've heard of us?"

"Our dad was a Marine," Sam said. "But then, I guess you already know that."

"I'm not too sure I know anything." With nothing to lose, Tony decided to try a bluff. "You're probably both figments of my imagination. Head injury, you know. Hell, you're not the first crazy thing I've seen today."

"Oh, yeah?" The Winchesters exchanged a speaking glance and Dean's voice was genuinely interested. "Like what?"

"Okay, well, I know this is nuts, but, you ever heard of BEK's?"

"Black-Eyed Kids?" The brothers spoke in perfect unison. It was a little bit more than a little bit creepy.

"Kids," Sam elaborated, "kids with completely black eyes. They approach you late at night and want in your car or your house. Ask for a ride or a drink of water. If you let them in, you die. Those black-eyed kids?"

"Yeah, urban legends. Well, only they weren't kids."

"They who?" Again with the Winchester chorus.

"The, uh, the guys who grabbed me."

"Who were they, do you know?" This time it was Sam doing the talking. "What were they doing? Why do you think they wanted you?"

Tony considered briefly how much he could tell them without breaching national security. The more truth he could weave into his story, the more chance they'd buy it. But he wouldn't be derelict in his duties or betray his country. He'd die first.

"We were tracking a terrorist cell. We have reason to believe they're planning to place a bomb on a Marine base." Actually, it was a Naval installation, but their dad had been in the Corps. Maybe he could engender a little sympathy for his cause. "I was following a guy we thought was a low-level courier. He went down a dead-end alley and disappeared. I still don't know where he was hiding. When I turned around, he and two of his friends were behind me. Just for a second, just before one of them hit me . . . ." Tony paused and shuddered again at the memory. It was just his imagination. He knew that. He was well aware of the phenomenon of stress-induced hallucinations. Still, the image sent a primal horror through him that he could neither explain nor dismiss.

"Their eyes went black?" Dean finished.

Tony nodded.

"Did you do anything or say anything?" Sam asked. "Make the sign of the cross, maybe? Or pray?"

"Cuss?" Dean suggested.

"Um, I might have said," Tony cleared his throat and averted his gaze, oddly embarrassed, "uh, Christ on a pizza?"

The brothers glanced at one another. Sam nodded and walked out of the room and Tony heard him leave the house.

"Yeah," Dean said, "must have been an hallucination." He dug into a pocket on his flannel and produced a bottle of water. "See? Still sealed. I'm gonna break the seal now, okay?" He got the cap off and raised Tony's head so he could drink, pulling the water away when Tony would have gulped it down. "Careful. Drink it too fast and it'll come right back up." He let the agent slake his thirst, then dug out a set of lock picks. "All right," (he slurred the words, so they came out "a'right"), "I'm gonna get you loose and we'll see if you can sit up now. You can keep that belt knife, just don't try to stick me with it, okay?"

Tony gulped and nodded carefully. They knew he had a knife and they weren't afraid to leave him armed. This was _so_ not good!

Dean moved around the bed, making short work of the handcuffs, and Tony listened to the sounds Sam was making. He heard the screech of metal he'd heard earlier, closing the gate, he guessed, and then the trunk opening and closing again. Sam came back into the outer room, dropped something or some things on the floor, and, with a tell-tale _hiss,_ the scent of spray paint filled the air.

_Tagging_? Tony thought, puzzled. Then he remembered - the Winchesters were devil worshipers who left their motel rooms plastered with arcane signs and symbols. And he'd just played right into their delusions. Had he made himself a hostage? Or, worse still, a sacrifice to the powers of darkness.

Dean slid an arm under his shoulders and helped him sit up. Every muscle and bone in his body ached and the change in altitude made his head spin. Dean steadied him and peered into his eyes, checking his pupils. He gave him more water. He radiated nothing but kindness and concern.

The Winchesters had never been in NCIS jurisdiction, but Tony remembered the videos that had been all over the TV for weeks. The two of them laughing as they gunned down innocent civilians, mugging for the security cameras.

"There's a pair of shoes over here," Dean said, crossing to the far corner and coming back with Tony's dress shoes. "City shoes. All shiny and uncomfortable looking."

"That's Italian leather. Three-hundred dollars."

"Yeah?" Dean pulled a skeptical face. "I like my Italian cows as sausage, personally." He dropped down next to the bed and put Tony's shoes on for him, dressing him as matter-of-factly as if he were a toddler. "So what's a fed doing wearing three-hundred dollar designer shoes?"

"I always try to channel my inner Bond."

Dean paused to look up at him, quirked an eyebrow. "Which Bond?"

"Connery, of course."

It must have been the right answer, because it earned him another charming grin.

Sam came back in then, bringing the strong smell of spray paint and a bag of rock salt. He went over and poured a line of it across in front of the window, talking as he worked.

"I think we're good now. I closed the gate and put up wards and salt lines."

"You didn't hide Baby?"

"You can't see her - I mean _it_," the brothers scowled at one another and Tony was impressed, again, with how scary it was that they could have entire dialogues with looks and gestures that he couldn't follow. "You can't see _it_ from the road. I found their tire tracks from when they brought the agent up here and they just parked out front. What now?"

Dean visibly considered. "You said downstairs?"

Sam nodded and held up a device that might have been born a Walkman but now was clearly something else. "In the cellar."

"Right." Dean turned to Tony. "We need to go downstairs and take care of something. I think it's best if you come with us. Think you can manage it? If not, we can carry you."

Tony swallowed, steeled himself. "I can walk."

"Good job. We'll help." He crouched next to the agent and paused, sorting out words. "Look, I know you're pretty freaked out about all this and I know you've got no reason whatsoever to trust us, but, really, you're safe now and everything's going to be okay."

Tony should have let it go. Nodded and played along with them; maybe even summoned a smile. He'd been wondering since they first started being nice to him what would be the switch that would turn these earnest young Good Samaritans into cold-blooded psychopaths. But he was Tony DiNozzo, and some openings just couldn't be passed up.

He looked Dean in the eye and spoke soberly. "We are men of action. Lies do not become us."

Dean just stared for a second, then, pointing at Tony, turned to shoot his brother a delighted grin. "I like him, Sammy! He quotes movies!"

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, quietly amused, then gave his brother a disbelieving look when Dean paused to gather up the discarded handcuffs and fasten them around his own wrists like bracelets.

"Dean. Seriously?"

"What? Handcuffs can come in handy." Dean waggled his eyebrow suggestively and grinned a wicked grin. "You never know when you might meet a hot chick who wants to play The Stern Meter Maid and The Naughty Motorist."

Tony grinned and nodded in spite of himself. Sam saw and growled softly. "Great, there's two of you. Maybe you can make a play date later." He stomped out of the room.

Dean pulled Tony to his feet and braced him as they followed more slowly into a larger outer room. "Don't mind my sister, Samantha. She always gets a little bitchy when that time of the month rolls around."

Dean was steadying Tony with his right hand. With his left, he easily caught the sawed-off shotgun Sam tossed to him. Sam had another shotgun, two shovels and the bag of rock salt, and Dean, at least, still had a handgun tucked into the back of his waistband. Sam pulled open a door in the far wall.

"Careful, the stairs are a little rickety," he said and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

As Tony let Dean guide him down the narrow, shaky staircase, he didn't see any way this could end well for him.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS_

The cellar was a dark hole with a dirt floor, the walls lined with rotting shelves filled with moldy glass jars of prehistoric canned goods. An upstairs room Tony hadn't seen was missing some floorboards and the dust mote-filled shafts of sunlight those holes admitted provided the only illumination. The light seemed to slant more now than it had earlier, suggesting afternoon creeping towards evening.

Sam had the mutant Walkman out and was pacing around the cellar with it. He reached the farthest corner from the stairs and the thing started squealing, lights along the top flashing frantically. Tony shied away, closing his eyes and trying to protect his ears from the onslaught.

"Sam." Dean's quiet voice held a warning.

The noise stopped and Sam's voice, when he spoke, was contrite. "Sorry."

Tony looked up and Sam was standing in the corner of the cellar, holding the now-silent Walkman and looking at him with concern in his eyes.

"There, you reckon?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, still preoccupied with his examination of Tony. "What about . . . ?"

Now Dean was looking at him too, and he felt like a butterfly pinned to a board in some old lady's parlor. He'd always felt sorry for those poor, damned butterflies.

"Gonna need you to sit down," Dean said, lowering Tony to the earthen floor. "For what it's worth, this is probably the best seat in the house." He crouched down, putting himself on a level with the seated agent. "Okay, so I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess you probably don't believe in ghosts?"

"I'll believe just about anything if you promise not to kill me," Tony said with bare honesty.

"One thing I learned a long time ago, you can't make people believe what they don't want to. Or not believe what they do." Dean sounded, for the first time, sad and a little bit bitter. Tony swallowed, wondering if this was the first sign of his mood changing. "Which brings me to my second point, which is that you _do_ believe that Sam and I are blood-thirsty psychopaths."

"Blood-thirsty psychopaths seems a little harsh," Tony hedged.

"We are men of action. Lies do not become us."

"Touche."

"So, you believe we're blood-thirsty psychopaths. Given that, if we ask you to do something that's maybe a bit silly but not dangerous or illegal or immoral, wouldn't it be in your best interests, in the time-honored tradition of 'humor the crazy people', to go along with it?"

Tony froze. The silence in the murky cellar was filled with tension. He felt as if the old house was sitting on his chest, crushing the breath from his scarred lungs. As if the surrounding hills and the sky above and the weight of the very stars in heaven was resting on him.

"What do you want me to do?" he whispered.

Dean Winchester grinned, got the bag of rock salt and walked around him, pouring out an unbroken line of white crystals. "Just sit in the circle and don't come out until we tell you it's safe."

"Sit in the salt circle?"

"Yep."

"_Just_ sit in the salt circle."

"Yep." Dean stood, half turned away but then turned back at the last moment. "Oh, one more thing. If things start flying around the cellar, duck."

Tony considered, trying to figure out their angle and coming up blank. "Sit in the salt circle. Duck. I can do that."

"Good man!"

"So, um, do you mind if I ask what you guys are going to be doing while I'm sitting here ducking?"

Dean broke open his shotgun, checked the ammo and snapped it shut again. He shrugged nonchalantly. "Just digging up a grave."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS_

They took turns, one digging while the other stood guard with a shotgun. They weren't pointing the gun at Tony, nor even at the staircase specifically. It was as if they expected some threat to materialize out of thin air.

The cellar floor was packed hard and their progress slow, judging from the way the pile of dirt beside the grave accumulated. Tony was wondering how deep they were planning to put him when Sam, holding the gun then, suddenly spoke as if reading his mind.

"It's not for you."

"What?"

"The grave. It's not for you."

Dean stopped digging and leaned on the shovel. "Dude! I thought you understood. We're not _digging_ a grave. We're digging _up_ a grave. We're digging up Jenny Craig."

"Jenny Carver," Sam corrected, with an annoyed little twist to his features.

"That's his bitchface," Dean told Tony cheerfully. "Meh. Jenny Craig. Jenny Carver." He shrugged.

"You're making jokes about a dead girl," Sam pointed out testily.

Dean stopped, sobered and conceded the point with a slight nod. "Jenny Carver," he said. "She's buried here, or at least we think she's buried here."

"You're with NCIS," Sam said. "Does that mean you work out of the Navy Yard?"

"I do," Tony admitted, wondering where this was going.

"Are you familiar with an outlet mall on the north side of old highway 9, just outside of D.C., heading into Maryland?"

"He wears $300 Italian leather shoes," Dean said, amused. "I doubt he shops at outlet malls."

"I think I've driven past it," Tony said. "If it's the one you mean. What about it?"

"'S haunted. Since it opened back in the nineties. Abandoned gas station that was there before it was haunted too. A crying woman in a pink dress, with a red rope or scarf around her neck."

"So . . . you decided to go ghost hunting?"

"Normally, we wouldn't bother." Sam continued the story. "There are literally millions of ghosts, and most of them are harmless. Lost souls, death echoes, atmospheric photographs. If they're not hurting anyone, we leave them alone. There just isn't time to deal with them all."

"When you say, 'deal with them', you mean . . . ?"

"Usually, salt and burn their bones. It breaks their connection to this plane and allows them to move on. Sometimes there's an object they're tied to, or you need to perform some rite or purification ritual. Sometimes you just have to figure out what they want and find a way to give it to them."

"You said normally you wouldn't bother with, um, Jenny. So why are you?"

The Winchesters glanced at one another, doing that whole silent communication thing again, then Dean climbed out of the shallow hole they'd managed and traded Sam his shovel for the shotgun. Sam jumped down and took up the digging and Dean leaned against the wall and continued the explanation.

"About two weeks ago a sixteen-year-old girl went to the mall to look for a dress for her junior prom. It was a big deal, I guess, so they made a family girls' day out thing out of it. The teenager, her mom and sister, couple of aunts, grandma and great-grandma."

"And they saw the ghost," Tony guessed.

"They not only saw it, Great-Grandma recognized it. She said it was her little sister, Jenny Carver, who disappeared in April of 1953 and was never seen again."

Tony took a minute to let that sink in. "So, how does that lead to the two of you digging up this lovely, tropical cellar?"

"They posted the story online," Sam said. "Said that Jenny was mouthing the words 'find me', and begged someone to help them out. Dean has a big soft spot for anybody missing siblings -"

That earned him a scowl and a muttered "shaddup" from his big brother, but Sam just gave him an affectionate look and continued.

"We had a little time, so we decided to see what we could do."

"Back in the fifties," Dean said, "there was an all-night truck stop on the land where the outlet mall is now. Jenny Carver was working there as a waitress when she took out the trash one night and never came back in. She was seventeen. There were no witnesses, no clues, nothing. She was just gone without a trace."

"I still don't see how that led you here."

"Right. Have you ever heard of Abner Littlefield?"

"Littlefield." Tony scrunched his brow in thought. "The serial killer? Mid-sixties? He had, was it nineteen kills? All young women and girls. He strangled them."

"He was arrested in '65, went to the electric chair in '71. Nineteen kills officially," Dean said. "We think it was at least twenty. Remember how he killed his victims? He strangled them with a red tapestry cord. Jenny Carver fit his profile, and her ghost has a red cord around her neck."

"But didn't Abner Littlefield live in Manassas? And he buried his victims under his garage. Are we in Manassas?"

"You're very perceptive," Sam said. "We're not in Mannassas. As far as the law knew, Littlefield started killing in '57, after he got out of the army. When Jenny Carver disappeared, he was still a teenager and he lived right here with his senile, elderly grandmother."

Tony thought it through. If you accepted the ghost part, the rest of it fit. "So what's with the salt circle and the ducking then?"

"Precaution," Dean answered. "We're actually not expecting trouble, for a change. Jenny's never been violent and she wants to be found. Still, ghosts can get a bit wonky when you uncover their bones and it never hurts to err on the side of caution, especially with you already being walking wounded."

"Dean." Sam's voice deepened on the word.

His brother went over, looked down into the hole they'd been digging. "Yahtzee." He came back over to Tony. "I think it's safe. C'mon. I'd like you to see this."

Tony let himself be hoisted to his feet again, swayed slightly and clung to Dean Winchester for support. Under the guise of needing the other man's help, he leaned in, closed his hand around the grip of the gun in Dean's waistband, pulled it free, stuck it in Dean's chest and pulled the trigger.

The _click click click_ of the hammer falling on empty chambers was louder, in Tony's head, than he thought the actual gunshots would have been.

"_Oh, shit!_" Tony's head was spinning, his heart racing in his ears and he felt the blood draining from his face. Still, he squared his shoulders and stood as straight as he could, determined to face the end of the world like a man.

Dean took the gun from his unresisting fingers and tucked it back into his waistband. "Feel better?" He peered into Tony's face. "Okay, maybe not. You're not gonna upchuck are you? Please don't. And if you gotta, aim for Sam, okay? Seriously. These are my only boots."

"The gun was empty," Tony said stupidly, shock making him numb.

"Well, yeah," Dean said reasonably. "I couldn't let you grab a loaded one. You'd shoot me."

"You knew I was going to go for your weapon."

"Be an awfully sucky Bond if you didn't. C'mon. You're okay. Just breathe. Don't hyperventilate. We don't have any paper bags. You'd have to breathe into one of Sam's socks and, believe me, none of us want him taking those giant clodhoppers off."

Dean waited patiently, supporting Tony while the agent's racing pulse slowed and he got his breathing back under control. When he was marginally calm again, Dean once more tugged him towards the waiting grave. "C'mon, like I said. I think you should see this."

As they came up to the grave, Tony fully expected to be shoved in, shot and summarily buried. A glance at the younger Winchester's face suggested that Sam would be happy to do just that. Instead, though, Dean merely continued to support him. Sam jumped out, then turned back to shine a light down in the hole. The bone was stained almost to the same color as the surrounding earth, but Tony had no trouble picking out the human skull.

After a silence that seemed to go on for decades but probably lasted about two minutes, Tony asked, "so what happens now?"

Sam shrugged. "Now we report it to the authorities so Jenny can get a proper burial and rest in peace."

Dean straightened his shoulders and turned to Tony.

"Officer, as concerned citizens, my brother and I would like to report that we have found human remains in that hole right there." He looked to Sam. "How's that."

Sam spared his brother a sardonic half grin. "Works for me." He glared at Tony. "Well?"

Tony blinked. "Right. Thanks. That's very civic-minded of you." What in the _hell_ was going on here?

He didn't buy the whole Jenny Carver/ haunted outlet mall nonsense. Most likely, this was one of their own old kills. But why had they dug her up and what game were they playing with him? Before he could even begin to formulate a theory they were interrupted by the sound of a door slamming open upstairs. Footsteps entered and stopped right inside the main room and voices raised in anger. The door to the cellar blasted open and the old house was filled with an unearthly scream that had to be the wind, because nothing living on God's green Earth could possibly make such a noise.

The Winchesters exchanged another of their meaningful looks.

"Sounds like we caught some rats in our trap," Dean said. "Shall we?"

"After you," Sam gestured politely to the stairs.

Dean lowered Tony to sit on the bottom step. "Just wait here. We'll be back in a few minutes." He patted Tony on the shoulder and was gone.

Sam paused beside him, not nearly so pleasant. He pulled himself up to his full height and glowered down at the agent, as intimidating as he could make himself. "Yeah, wait here," he snarled. "Sit. Stay."

Tony stayed put for all of two seconds after Sam disappeared through the door at the top of the stairs. Standing was beyond him, but that didn't mean he couldn't crawl. "Sit," he muttered to himself. "Stay. What do they think I am? A dog? I'm a _freaking_ Federal _freaking_ agent and I am not going to dawdle around in some stupid cellar while," he paused, halfway up the stairs, as the angry voices gave way to desperate screams. "While something bad happens to someone. Or someone happens to something bad. Or whatever."

As he neared the top he could hear a voice under the screaming. It was Sam, he realized, murmuring in Latin, soft and hypnotic. He couldn't hear clearly and he didn't speak the language anyway, though his knowledge of Italian meant he could at least guess at meanings. He filed away the few words he could make out. _Omnis incursio, infernalis, in nomine Deus . . . . _ He was sitting on the top step, just edging the door open, when the chanting ended with _amen_. He had a brief, fleeting impression of black smoke swirling near the ceiling and for a horrified minute he thought the Winchesters had simply set the old house on fire with him inside. Then the smoke was gone without a trace. A late sun slanted into the room, filling it with light, and he was looking at his three original attackers, unconscious on the floor just inside the door.

Sam caught sight of him first and gave him a fierce version of what his brother had called a "bitchface". "I thought I told you to stay put."

Dean hastened to step between them. "Sam. Easy."

"I _won't_ take it easy. He tried to kill you."

"He's a cop. I'm a fugitive. It's okay, I was ready for it. No harm, no foul. Hey! I'm -"

Without looking at his brother, Sam held his hand up, one finger raised, to forestall what he was about to say. "Do _not_ sing Bon Jovi."

Dean grinned. "You've gotta admit, it's a great song cue."

"You've been helping him and he tried to kill you. Tell me you're not tired of being screwed over by people after you help them."

The older Winchester deflated and when he spoke his voice was gentle and sad. "He's a cop. It's his job. He's just trying to do what he thinks is right, Sammy."

"It's Sam." Sam's shoulders drooped and he sighed. "And I know. So what are we going to do with him?"

"Yeah," Tony put in. "I'd be interested to hear the answer to that one, too."

Sam bitchfaced him. Dean grinned.

"Let's take care of these guys first," he suggested. "If you want to wait there, I'll be back to help you in a minute. If you'd rather ruin that expensive monkey suit by crawling around in the dirt some more, go ahead."

Working together, the Winchester brothers moved the three terrorists into the bedroom where Tony had first woken up. It was Sam who came and got the special agent a few minutes later. Walking slowly, they went together into the room, to find Dean putting the finishing touches on an abstract sculpture of tangled human bodies fastened together with handcuffs. He took the last set of cuffs, closed one cuff around one terrorist's wrist, wrapped the chain two or three times around the bed frame and then snapped the other cuff on a different terrorist's ankle.

Sam dropped Tony off on the edge of the bed and left again and Tony studied Dean Winchester's artwork.

"My God, it looks like a game of drunk Twister."

"I've played that," Dean claimed, "naked, with a set of identical French twins."

Tony stared him down. "I don't believe you."

"God's own truth."

Sam came back dragging an ancient, battered wing chair. The upholstery was ripped and stained, with dark stuffing spilling out the back.

"I found this in one of the other rooms. It's pretty ratty, but it should be sturdy enough to hold you. It'll be more comfortable than sitting on the floor or trying to share the bed with the three stooges, here."

They set the chair close to the bed and Tony moved himself from one to the other, sinking into the musty, dusty chair and trying not to cough himself into a fit.

The brothers left and for a minute, Tony dared to hope that they were really going away, but Dean returned once more, arms loaded down. He dropped his burden on the bed, right on top of the men imprisoned there, and shook out a stained, faded and tattered blanket. He draped it over Tony, tucking it in around him and bringing one corner up to cover the agent's head.

"Snooze-E-Z Inn?" Tony read.

"Yeah, it's stolen property," Dean admitted. "Hey, we're hardened criminals. What do you expect?" He dropped several unopened bottles of water in Tony's lap, along with half a dozen protein bars and a small bottle of generic, over-the-counter pain medication with the security seal intact. "These things are all still unopened. I thought you'd feel a bit better about them that way, but if you need me to, I can open them for you before we go."

"And then what?" Tony asked. "Will you let someone know where I am?"

Dean reached back and picked up a box that had slipped down between two of the terrorists and Tony recognized a cheap cellphone, the kind you can buy at any gas station or convenience store. Dean pulled it out of the box and got it free from the wrapping, tossing the empty box and torn plastic over his shoulder. He put the battery and SIM card in the phone and handed it to Tony.

"We get a ways away from here we'll activate it so you can call for help. If I were you, I'd call someone you know first, especially if you don't have your ID on you. Local yokels are apt to be a bit suspicious of a guy who claims he's a fed and the three dudes he's got chained to a bed are his prisoners. Especially," Dean gave him a killer grin, "when he's wrapped in a stolen blanket."

Tony stared at him, looking into his eyes, trying to find some measure of understanding.

"Why?" he asked, voice soft and serious.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Why what?"

"Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? Why am I not dead already?"

The elder Winchester brother sighed, then brightened. "You want the truth?"

"Yeah."

Dean grinned. "You can't handle the truth."

"That was too easy. And I'm serious. I need to know. Please?"

The other man leaned in close and clasped a friendly hand on Tony's shoulder. "You wouldn't _believe_ the truth," he said softly. "If it makes you feel better, you can just think that we're attention whores. Too long out of the spotlight. Hot newscasters never do stories about dead guys. We just really needed our faces back on the nightly news again."

The last sentence was spoken with a sardonic twist of Dean's mouth and with such underlying bitterness that Tony, with his long career in law enforcement, would have staked his entire movie collection on it being a lie.

A horn sounded outside the window.

"Oh, if he's sitting in the driver's seat blowing the horn at me I'm gonna have to kick his ass. If you hear an ass kicking outside the window, don't worry about it. Just business as usual."

"You know we're going to have to come after you?"

Dean paused in the doorway, half turned back with a wry expression and an odd light in his eye. "Here's to happy hunting," he said, and then he was gone.

Tony heard Dean leave the house. He heard him yell at his brother and then the two of them snarking back and forth, bickering about the radio.

"You know the rules, bitch. Driver picks the music. Shotgun shuts his cake hole."

The car's powerful engine roared to life, there was a blast of Metallica at make-your-ears-bleed volume, and then they rolled away. Tony listened as they drove around to the gate, stopped to open it, and left without bothering to close it again behind them. He could hear the motor for a long time after they'd gone, slowly fading away into the distance.

It had occurred to him to wonder, of course, if this was some kind of mind game they were playing with him. One of them could have quietly stayed behind when the other drove away and be waiting even now for him to relax. Or they could just go and leave him sitting there forever, waiting for the phone that would never turn on, for help that would never come.

He examined the supplies they'd left him, but as far as he could tell they really were un-tampered with. His head was still killing him, so he pried open the painkillers and popped three. Then he ate two of the protein bars, washing them down with one of the bottles of water. He was just finishing the second bar when the phone in his lap beeped.

He picked it up and turned it on and was surprised but not shocked to find he had service. With the first real flicker of hope he'd felt all day, he dialed a number he knew by heart. It barely rang once before it was answered.

"What?"

"Boss?"

Gibbs' reply was explosive, pure fury. "Damnit, DiNozzo! Where in the _hell_ are you?"

"Don't really know. Have McGee track this cell."

Gibbs' voice softened and now Tony could hear the concern that had fueled the anger. "Are you all right?"

"Been better. Been worse. You need to get a BOLO out. 1967 Chevy Impala, black, cherry condition."

"Got tags on that? Description of the occupants?"

"Tags are probably Kansas, and you've got pictures of the occupants. It's the Winchesters, boss. They're back. Again."


	2. Dancing With The Stars And Stripes

Author's Note: And here's chapter two, from the Winchesters' point-of-view. Given that the NCIS crew is investigating Sam and Dean, the NCIS chapters are probably going to be longer than the Supernatural ones. I'm not trying to short-change anyone, that's just the way the story works out. Also, my Latin classes were (mumble mumble) years ago. I'm having Internet issues at my house right now, so I'm not checking, just translating on the fly. If I get it wrong, I'm sorry. And, finally, I know nothing about computers and hacking so all my hacking stuff should be taken for the itechnobabble it is. I will update as quickly as I can, given the Internet issues and all. Thanks for reading!

AND, an update to the author's note - My Internet at my house is still out so I'm only getting online by going to McDonalds. I just came online for the first time since posting and everyone's kind response to this story has blown me away. Thank you all so much for the reviews, alerts and favorites! As soon as I get my connection issues straightened out, I will respond to everyone in person, I promise. In the meantime, here are the next two chapters and I hope you all enjoy them. Thanks again for reading. :)

Disclaimer: I know no_thing_!

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

Chapter Two: Dancing With The Stars And Stripes

Sam had his laptop out before they were even out of sight of the old farmhouse. Dean reached over and turned down the music so they could talk.

"What the hell, Sam?"

"I know. I'm looking."

"I mean, demon terrorists? Really? 'Cause that's one constant about terrorists. If they really believe in the supernatural at all, they're always convinced that they're warriors of God, or Allah, or whatever. There's nothing more surprised than a suicide bomber waking up downstairs."

"Okay, I found it. It was in the _Ars Demonicae_."

"The Demon's Ass?"

Sam shot him a bitchface. "The Demonic Arts. We were right. Those sigils on their chests were summoning runes. Kind of like a vacancy sign for demons."

"Could someone else have tattooed them up? Or convinced them to do it without them knowing what it meant?"

"No. Those sigils only work if the wearer put them on themselves, with full knowledge of what they were doing." He consulted the document he'd opened. "The good news is, the demons who took them up on the offer added their names to the runes."

"Like signing the lease?"

"Kinda, I guess. And since we exorcised them, no other demons will be able to move in."

They rode along on that thought for awhile.

"So," Dean said finally, "you gonna be able to activate that cell phone without them tracing it back to us?"

"Are you questioning my hacking skills?" Sam asked, not really miffed. He sighed. "Y'know, I'm really not looking forward to being back on the Ten Most Wanted list. What do you think? Should we just hide out at the archive until it all dies down again?"

"How can we? We have to find out what the demon terrorists are up to. Like we didn't already have enough on our plate. Anyway, we get into a bind, we got an ace in the hole. Or, at least, I hope we have."

"Did you need me?"

At the sound of the familiar, gravelly voice, Dean glanced into the rear view mirror and Sam turned.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said. "What's shaking?"

In the back seat, the angel blinked and tipped his head. "I am not aware that anything is shaking. Did you mean in the car or in the near vicinity or in the world at large?"

"No, man. It's just an expression. It means, 'what's going on?' 'What have you been doing?'" Dean locked eyes with Cas in the mirror. He thought the angel looked battered, tired. "Are you okay?"

"We have been searching for the angel tablet. If Crowley finds it before we do, the consequences would be . . . unthinkable." He tipped his head in his bird-like fashion and regarded the brothers. "Why did you call me?"

"Just wanted to give you a heads up. We, uh, we might get into trouble in the near future."

The angel stared at the back of Dean's head for a long minute, expression perplexed. "Dean, you are always in trouble. In all the time I have known you, I have never known you to not be in trouble."

Dean sighed, feeling the weight of guilt and shame heavy once more on his shoulders. "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you."

"You misunderstand. That wasn't a complaint, nor a criticism. Merely an observation, my friend. What manner of trouble do you anticipate now? What's . . . shaking?"

Twitching a small smile, Sam shifted further in his seat so he could see the angel more clearly. "You know that the authorities - law enforcement - think that Dean and I are cold-blooded serial killers, among other things?"

"Indeed. It is a great travesty that the truth of your deeds is not known. However, are not the authorities under the impression that you are both dead?"

"They were. We just rescued a federal agent who had been kidnapped by a trio of demons. He doesn't know they were demons, though. We left him a cell phone so he could call for help and we're going to activate it for him in a minute. As soon as he contacts his people, he's going to tell them that we're still alive."

"What will they do?"

"Immediately?" Sam considered. "They'll trace the phone he's calling from to find out where he is and send him help. Then, since they're feds, they'll probably have access to satellite footage. They'll use it to start searching the surrounding area for our car."

They reached blacktop - a deserted, two-lane county highway heavily shadowed by trees, and Dean turned onto it and picked up speed.

"Would it be best for you to be somewhere else when they do?"

"Well, yeah."

"Where?"

"I don't know. About fifty miles away, in the middle of a crowd."

"Holy shit!" Dean pumped the brake. Only his innate driving skill kept him from crashing as he suddenly found himself driving on a crowded four-lane freeway. He pulled over into the right lane and slowed and the car behind him rolled past, middle-aged driver gawking at them open-mouthed. Dean gave the guy a weak smile and a finger wave and the guy puckered up and looked like he was about to cry. "Little warning there next time, Cas?"

"Sorry. What else can I do?"

Dean twitched his shoulders. "We should be good for now. We're gonna do our best to stay off their radar, but if we get caught we might need you to angel-air us outta jail."

"Of course. If you need me, call and I will come as soon as I can."

"Thanks. Hey!"

"Yes?"

"How are you doing? Is there anything we can do for you?"

Cas favored him with a small smile. "No, Dean. I do not believe so. But if there is, I will let you know."

There was a faint rustle of feathers and Cas was gone.

"So," Dean turned to his brother, "about that fed . . . ."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Using his mad computer skills, Sam located a small auto body shop in Georgetown that had gone out of business when the owner died intestate. Dean polished the Impala to a high gloss and parked her in the show window, swapping out her Kansas license plates for the Maryland tags on a mostly-rebuilt 1976 El Camino.

Wiping his hands on a shop rag, he wandered into the office, where Sam sat at the desk, studying his computer. "How's it going?"

"Pepsi machine still works."

"Great. How come we never find a place with a working beer machine?"

Sam ignored the rhetorical question and Dean fetched a can of soda pop and came around behind his brother to look down at the screen.

"Tell me about NCIS," he requested.

"It's small, as federal agencies go. 'NCIS' stands for Navy Criminal Investigative Services. They're concerned with law enforcement in the Navy and Marine Corps. Their agents are not actually in the service, though a number of them are ex-military. They're civilian employees, working outside the chain of command."

"Makes sense."

"They're based out of the Naval Yard, but they have agents stationed all over the world. Most agents work singly, or in pairs, but there are a few specialized teams too. They have their own forensics labs and autopsy. Their head forensic scientist is one of the best in the world. I've heard of her before."

"Her?"

"Abby Sciuto."

Sam pulled up a picture and Dean checked it out and whistled. "A Goth. A hot Goth." She was wearing a black tee shirt that said "I heart vampires". Sam caught the wistful look that flitted across his brother's face and sighed.

Dean gave him a half-guilty, half-defensive glare.

"You're wishing you could introduce her to Benny. It's okay. I get it."

"No," Dean said. "Oh, no. Hell no! Just the opposite."

"Oh?" Sam's brows drew together. "Why's that?"

"Sam, Benny's a hopeless romantic and he has absolutely no sense when it comes to women. How do you think he wound up in Purgatory in the first place?"

"Oh . . . okay. Anyway, their M.E., Dr. Donald Mallard -"

"Donald Duck?" Dean interrupted. Their M.E. is Donald Duck?"

Sam, who had fully anticipated his brother's reaction, gave him a glare with no heat in it and forged ahead. "Dr. Donald Mallard is also tops in his field. Remember that case we worked a couple of years ago? The sailors eaten by the swamp monster? He's the one who did the autopsies on those. Best autopsy reports I've ever read."

"So you've hacked into NCIS before?"

"No, I got copies of his reports from the local law enforcement. I never tried to hack NCIS before. Their cyber-security is _very_ good."

"How good?"

"I couldn't get in," Sam admitted reluctantly. "I had to call Charlie. You'll never guess how she got me in."

"Yeah, since I'm not a geek and I don't understand that crap you're probably right."

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother. He knew Dean had some mad computer skills of his own, but he didn't call him on it. "Charlie hacked the CIA."

"Seriously?"

"Apparently, she's done it before. She figured since the CIA basically spies on everyone, they'd have a line into NCIS. And she did find a link between them."

"The CIA is spying on NCIS?"

"No, that's the funny thing. NCIS was spying on the CIA. Charlie said it was awhile ago, but whoever did it left a sort of a marker there, probably in case they wanted to come back. She was able to follow that marker back into NCIS."

"So now will their computer geeks notice that their old doorway is open again?"

"Hopefully not. There was an alarm on it, but Charlie's sure she got it deactivated. If they do find our hack, they'll think it's the CIA backtracking their own connection."

"What if someone back-traces from the CIA?"

"Dean, she's good. She's not gonna get caught. Anyway, she said that if they do try to trace her, she's put what she calls 'the cafeteria defense' in place."

"What's 'the cafeteria defense'?"

"That's what I asked. She said, remember when you were in school and, if you farted in the cafeteria and didn't want anyone to know it was you, you'd cover it up by holding your nose and pointing at the stinky kid?"

"Oh, yeah." Dean grinned.

"A childish and abusive form of anti-social behavior, by the way."

"You're just saying that 'cause you were the stinky kid."

Sam bitchfaced him. "Anyway, Charlie said that if they manage to trace her past the CIA, she's pointed them at the stinky kid."

"Who's the stinky kid?"

"I have no idea."

"Huh. So we're in?"

"We're in. We don't have complete access. Nothing top-secret. But I've got basic personnel, case files, security video, and internal communications."

"So talk to me."

"Well, DiNozzo was telling the truth about being an NCIS agent. He's a member of the MCRT, in fact. That's, uh, the Major Crimes Response Team. Pretty much their top cops. The team leader is L.J. Gibbs -"

"Did you say L.J. Tibbs?" Dean broke in.

"No, Gibbs. Not Tibbs, Gibbs. L.J. Tibbs is a fictional character, Dean. Wait a minute - you read Deep Six?"

"What? I read."

"Yeah, Muscle Cars Monthly and Busty Asian Beauties."

"And . . . other stuff."

"Did you read the whole book or just the sex scenes?"

"Did you pass the bar sometime without me noticing?"

Sam grinned. "Yeah, that's what I thought. SO, lead agent is Leroy Jethro Gibbs." He ignored his brother's amused snort. "Your new friend DiNozzo is the senior field agent and the rest of the team consists of Special Agents McGee and David."

"David?"

Sam clicked on her file. "Oh, it's Dah-veed," he said, correcting his pronunciation. "Ziva David. She's the daughter of the late Mossad director Eli David."

"She's Israeli?"

"Uh, by birth, yeah. Naturalized American citizen. She came to NCIS as a Mossad liaison officer. Guess she liked it, so she decided to stay."

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute! Officer Ziva? Are you _sure_ this isn't Deep Six? Think about it. L.J. _Tibbs_ - L.J. _Gibbs_. Agent _Tommy_ - Agent _Tony_. Office _Lisa_ - Officer _Ziva_. Special Agent _McGregor_ - Special Agent _McGee_."

"Well," Sam said, "there was a rumor that Thom Gemcity was a pseudonym for an actual federal agent. It could still just be coincidence, though." He clicked through the files a bit more. "Or not," he corrected himself, biting the inside of his cheek in quiet amusement.

"Whaddya got?"

"The assistant medical examiner is one Dr. James Palmer."

"James Palmer?" Dean crowed. "As in Jimmy Palmer? As in Pimmy Jalmer? Ha! Let me see that."

He studied the personnel files for a few seconds. "Yeah, it was McGee."

"Well," Sam said, "McGregor was the main character, so I guess it makes sense."

"Not only that, but whaddya wanna bet his first name's Timothy?"

"What? Oh! Thom E. Gemcity. Timothy McGee. It's an anagram. I wonder how his co-workers felt about him writing them into his books."

"Yeah." The brothers exchanged a glance. They both knew all too well how it felt to have their lives made public as fiction. "Hey, I wonder if his books have slash fans?"

"I don't know," Sam said, "but I'm not going to go looking. Maybe, if you ever see DiNozzo again, you can ask him."

"Eh. With luck we'll never see him again." The words were cavalier, but there was real regret behind them. It was the story of Dean's life. He didn't have friends. He had 'could-have-been-friends'. "So what about our demon terrorists? You got anything on them?"

"Downloading their case files now. You wanna grab the printer?"

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Two hours later the Winchester brothers stood side-by-side and regarded the office wall, now plastered with surveillance photos, maps, blueprints of military installations, intercepted communications, forensic reports, and pictures of the three demon terrorists.

"It was a Navy outpost," Sam said. "DiNozzo said it was a Marine Corps installation."

"He knew Dad was a Marine."

"Right."

"This doesn't make any sense, though." Dean stepped closer to the wall, studying the blueprint of the Navy outpost in question. "This place has no tactical value as a target. An unmanned sonar and weather station?"

"It is part of the East Coast defenses against submarine warfare."

"But it's redundant. It's designed to be redundant. An enemy could take out three-fourths of these stations and the rest would still be able to cover the whole coast. Attacking one would just focus a lot of attention on that area."

"So it's a diversion."

"Obviously." Dean's eyes narrowed. "Too obviously." He went back to the desk and picked up a copy of Agent Ziva David's report on the surveillance detail that had led to the disappearance of Agent Anthony DiNozzo.

_"Agent DiNozzo and I followed the subject along 9th Street, through the commercial district between Green and Sycamore. Subject appeared nervous, but did not seem to be aware of our surveillance. When he turned into an alley in the 1600 block of 9th Street, Agent DiNozzo and I split up and I circled the block looking for the other end of the alley. When I couldn't find it, I returned to where we had separated, but Agent DiNozzo was nowhere to be seen. The alley where the subject turned in led to an empty courtyard, used during summer months for outdoor seating by the restaurant next door, but at this time of year still vacant. There was no sign of either DiNozzo or the subject. I rang DiNozzo's cell and could hear the ring tone. By following the sound, I found the phone in a wooden tub containing a decorative planting, out by the street."_

"There were traces of sulfur on the cell phone," Sam said, tapping the forensics report. "And, at 11:23 AM, just about the time DiNozzo disappeared, all the security cameras within a three-block radius experienced a 43-second burst of static. The feds have put it down as interference from a solar flare. This wasn't a terrorist attack in the making, was it?"

"No. It was a trap."

"For DiNozzo personally?"

Dean shook his head. "They had no way of knowing what agent would follow their guy down that alley. But they did want an NCIS agent."

"Right. They used a Naval installation as bait. But what would demons _or_ terrorists want with an NCIS agent?"

"That, my brother, is the $64,000 question."


	3. Back In Black

Disclaimer: I had nothing to do with the meteor explosion over Russia and I claim plausible deniability regarding the misfortunes aboard the Carnivale cruise ship Triumph.

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

Chapter Three: Back In Black

The elevator doors opened with a quiet _ping_ and Tony DiNozzo stepped out and stood for a moment, surveying the familiar bustle of the bullpen. It was 9 AM on the morning following his encounter with the Winchester brothers and he had just left Bethesda after being held overnight for observation. His left eye had blackened and his head still swam if he moved too quickly, but decent pain medication had taken the edge off and he was much too keyed up to sit around and do nothing.

Ziva saw him first. Their eyes met briefly and then she raked her gaze quickly up and down his body. He put a deliberate swagger in his step as he crossed to his team's area, though it took him an extra measure of concentration to keep it from becoming a stagger instead.

"You checking me out, David?"

"I was just wondering what they hit you with - and if it broke over your hard head." She brushed the back of her fingers against his arm as he passed, the gentle touch belying her tart tone.

"You're back!" McGee exclaimed.

"And the boy genius speaks," Tony snarked.

Gibbs came in with the strong scent of coffee and wood chips that always let Tony know when he was in the vicinity, even when the younger agent feigned ignorance of his approach. He marched right up to DiNozzo and examined him frankly, looking him in the eye.

"I thought the doctor told you to go home."

Tony swung the backpack down from his shoulder and dangled it from his left hand. Standing almost at attention, he returned Gibbs stare with a mixture of pleading and defiance.

"I am home."

Gibbs snorted and shook his head. "Go sit down before you fall down." He turned to the other two agents. "Somebody give me something."

"Agent Fornell called," Ziva said. "He is on his way over to talk to you about the Winchesters."

"Oh, joy. McGee, talk to me."

McGee clicked the remote and mug shots of the Winchester brothers appeared on the plasma screen. "What we know about the Winchesters," he began, but broke off as he caught the look Gibbs was giving him.

"Tim," the senior agent said with an 'I'm being very patient' air, "I know what we know about the Winchesters. Tell me something I don't know."

"Right. Got it, Boss." He clicked again and the pictures were replaced with an aerial view of the Virginia countryside. "There was a geopositioning satellite passing on a path that kept it within range of the house where Tony was being held for an hour and forty-three minutes yesterday afternoon. It's just a simple photographic record, no infrared, and the resolution isn't high enough to see humans, but you can clearly see the Winchesters' car drive up to the house and stop and, an hour and six minutes later, you can see them leave."

"Can we see where they went?"

"Unfortunately, no. They traveled down a series of dirt lanes and turned onto a heavily-shaded, two-lane county highway. They hadn't emerged from under the trees yet when the satellite moved out of range eleven minutes, fourteen seconds later. We've got a tri-state-wide BOLO out on their vehicle. Our people are processing the house itself - Ducky and Palmer just arrived here with the remains about an hour ago - and county and state forces are helping the FBI search the mountainside, in case they went to ground somewhere nearby. Oh, and there's a TIPS line up and running, but so far we haven't gotten anything but a very freaked-out motorist who claims that a black, classic Chevy Impala with three men in it materialized out of thin air right in front of him during the evening rush hour on the Beltway."

"Did anyone give him a breathalyzer?" Tony asked.

"It was an anonymous call."

"Imagine. What about the body in the basement? I figured it's gotta be one of the Winchesters' old kills, but why dig her up now and let me see her?"

"Bodies," Gibbs said. "There were five, all female, in the cellar. We're getting some kind of fancy, ground-scanning radar to search the rest of the farm now. Ducky thinks they've been there for decades. One of them was wearing saddle shoes and there are textile fragments from what could have been a poodle decoration on her skirt."

DiNozzo frowned, taken aback. "So it really could have been Jenny Carver? Was there even a Jenny Carver?"

"Ziver?" Gibbs said.

Ziva stepped forward, took the remote from McGee and clicked it in her turn. The aerial view gave way to scans of old newspaper stories and what looked to be a yearbook photo of a teenage girl with puffy, blonde hair that curled out around her shoulders and was held back from her face by a blue headband. "There _was_ a Jenny Carver."

"Oh my God," Tony said, "she looks like Trixie Belden."

"Actually, Tony, Trixie had dark, curly hair. I think you're thinking of her best friend, Honey Wheeler." McGee found the other three staring at him and blinked defensively. "What? My sister read them."

"Jenny Carver," Ziva said firmly, "disappeared during the summer of 1953. Two weeks ago her name surfaced on an online database of true ghost stories." She clicked the remote again and a web page came up. It was a black page with misty, ghostly graphics and white lettering.

"I Saw A Ghost Dot Com," Tony read, squinting to make the words stand still.

McGee glanced at him perceptively and read it aloud.

"MY GREAT-AUNT'S GHOST? by Violeteyes318 (author is a teenager)

"Okay, so this happened last weekend when I went shopping with my mom and my little sister and two aunts and my grandma and great-grandma. I needed to find a dress for my junior prom and my mom said we could make it a girls' day out, so we all went shopping and then went out to lunch and got our hair and our nails done and stuff. Well, it was getting kind of late in the evening and I hadn't found any dress that I really liked yet, so we went to this outlet mall, it's called Pine Village Center, off highway 9 in D.C. There's always lots of stories about a ghost there and I'd heard them but I wasn't really paying attention because I was just worrying about finding a good dress, you know?

"So, we were in this store called Silk Harvest and I went back to the dressing rooms to try on a couple of dresses and my little sister who's ten came with me to help with zippers and stuff. There was a light burned out in the ceiling lights and it was kind of dark back there. Plus, the changing rooms don't have doors, just curtains that you pull across, and our curtain didn't hang really straight, so there was a gap where you could see out. Well, my little sister happened to look out and all of a sudden she started freaking out. She said she saw a dead girl standing outside the dressing room looking in at us.

"Well, she was screaming and crying and everyone came running back to see what was wrong. When my sister finally calmed down enough to talk, she said she saw a teenage girl in a pink dress, with a red rope tied really tight around her neck, staring through the crack in the curtain at us. She said she was crying and saying something like "come find me". I mean, like, she was trying to talk and her lips were moving, but there was no sound.

"Then my great-grandma started freaking out. She got all pale and had to sit down and drink a glass of water and we all thought maybe she was having a heart attack. When she felt better, she asked my sister what the girl looked like and my sister said she looked just like –"

McGee broke off and sent a tiny glance around at his co-workers.

"Just like . . . ?" Gibbs prompted.

". . . said she looked just like Honey Wheeler in her old Trixie Belden books." He glared at Tony and Ziva, daring them to comment, but they just snickered quietly so after a minute he went on. "When she said that, my great-grandma just started to cry. See, what none of us knew, except only my grandma did but she'd never told any of us, was that great-grandma had a sister named Jenny Carver, 'cause that was great-gran's maiden name, who disappeared way back in the fifties and was never seen again. Back then, there was a truck stop where the outlet mall is now and Jenny was a waitress there. One night she took the trash out and never came back in and to this day no one knows what happened to her.

"So now, great-grandma's all upset because she thinks her sister must have gotten murdered and her spirit is stuck here, still waiting for someone to find her after all this time."

"That's the same story the Winchesters told me," Tony said. "So what does this mean? And do you think one of those bodies is really Jenny Carver?"

"One more thing we'll have to find out," Gibbs said.

"Ghosts aren't real," McGee said, to no one in particular.

"Abby has traced the internet account where this story originated to an address in Arlington," Ziva told them. "I'm going to go interview them and see what I can find out. Ghosts or no ghosts, if there are blood relatives of Jenny Carver there, at least we can obtain some DNA to test against the remains we've found. Then, if one of the bodies is Jenny's, we'll know."

They hadn't been watching the elevator, so they didn't realize FBI agent Tobias Fornell was standing behind them until he cleared his throat. Ziva and McGee stepped apart to let him through and he dropped a single sheet of paper on Gibbs' desk, then turned to glare at Tony.

"You had to go dig up the Winchesters again. You know, I liked them a lot better when they were dead."

"Yeah, they've given you a really rough time, haven't they, Fornell?" Tony leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on his desk. "But don't you worry about it. We'll take it from here."

Fornell snorted. "Like hell you will."

"What the hell is this, Tobias?" Gibbs cut in, snapping the sheet of paper irritably.

"You wanted information on the Winchesters. That's information on the Winchesters."

"I wanted their case files. This is a press release."

"You don't need their case files. The Winchesters are in FBI jurisdiction."

Gibbs and Fornell were old friends, but they were both alpha-male, dedicated cops and territorial as hell. Gibbs moved into Fornell's personal space and glared at him, eye to eye.

"The Winchesters were involved in an assault on and kidnapping of an NCIS agent _and_ a terrorist plot against a U.S. Naval installation. That puts them in _my_ jurisdiction."

"They _rescued_ your agent and _caught_ your terrorists. When I catch them, you can send them a thank-you note - in a federal pen."

"You mean when you catch them _again_? Think you'll be able to hold them long enough for mail-call this time?"

"You listen to me, Gibbs -"

"No. _You_ listen to _me_. You have been chasing these clowns for years and all they do is make your people look like a buncha baboons. They've stepped into _my_ world now, and threatened one of _my_ people and it is _my_ turn to take a shot at ending them. Once and for all."

"I agree."

Gibbs and Fornell both turned at the sound of the calm, authoritative voice behind them. NCIS Director Leon Vance stepped in between them and held up a piece of paper of his own.

"And, more to the point, so does the Attorney General. I have here a court order directing the FBI to turn over all records and evidence pertaining to the Winchester brothers by 6 P.M. today."

Fornell's shoulders drooped. Still angry, he opened his mouth to protest, but Vance stopped him with merely a shake of his head. There was a touch of wry humor in his eyes and the look he gave the FBI agent was not without sympathy. "Your copy of the court order," he said, handing it over."

Fornell took it with ill grace. "Fine," he said. "Fine. You want 'em, you got 'em. I guess this means it's my turn to watch the Winchesters make your people look like a . . . _buncha baboons_."

He turned and stomped off towards the elevators. Gibbs twitched his head in Fornell's direction. "McGee, David, go with him and pick up our files and evidence."

"Oh, no," Fornell said, stopping at the edge of the bullpen and turning back. "No, we'll deliver it to you. In fact, I'll see to it personally."

"Why thanks," Gibbs said, genial now that he was getting his way. "That's mighty nice of you, Tobias."

"Do you do pizza, too?" Tony asked. "Only, because I'm starving here."

Fornell spared him an annoyed glare before returning his angry gaze to Gibbs. He smiled an insincere little smile and spoke in a cordial voice dripping with acid. "Happy to oblige, Gibbs. Just you remember . . . you asked for this."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

The house in Arlington where Abby had traced the ghost story was a pleasant, older ranch-style home on a shady, residential street. Ziva climbed the three steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. After a moment there was the sound of footsteps and a slender woman in her late thirties or early forties opened the door.

"Mrs. Hersch?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, but I already have an Avon representative."

"No, I am not selling cosmetics." She displayed her badge and identification. "My name is Special Agent Ziva David and I am with NCIS."

"I don't know what that is."

"It stands for Naval Criminal Investigative Services. We're Navy cops."

Mrs. Hersch frowned at her. "I don't have anything to do with the Navy."

"Yes, I know. We are working on an unusual case. I need to speak with you for a moment. May I come in?"

Reluctantly, the older woman opened the door and admitted her. The house was pleasant, clean and comfortable but worn and lived in. Mrs. Hersch showed her into the living room and offered her a cup of coffee, which Ziva politely declined. When they were both seated, she began.

"You have two daughters, yes? A ten-year-old named Angel and a 16-year-old named Bianca?"

Mrs. Hersch nodded, frown lines between her eyes. She looked dismayed and worried and profoundly confused.

"And two weeks ago Bianca posted a ghost story on the Internet regarding the ghost of her great-great-aunt Jenny Carver?"

The woman recoiled. "Oh, my God! Is the government spying on what our children post on the Internet now?"

"Not at all," Ziva said reassuringly, managing not to roll her eyes. "I found her post when I Googled the name Jenny Carver. She said that her great-grandmother was Jenny Carver's sister. That would be Isobel Carver, yes?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Yesterday, one of our agents was alerted to the presence of human remains in the cellar of an abandoned farm house in Virginia. At this point we have located five clandestine graves, all of young women, that we believe date to the 1950s. We are following up on missing persons cases from that era, particularly those where the person who went missing fits the general description of the bodies. I've come to you because we're trying to locate living relatives of Jenny Carver, to help us determine if one of the bodies is her."

Mrs. Hersch relaxed back into the sofa and took a deep breath. "Was this them?" she asked. "Did they manage to find her after all?"

"I'm sorry?" Ziva frowned, confused now in her turn. "They? They who?"

"The boys," Mrs. Hersch said. "Bobby's boys."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Tony pushed the "down" button on the elevator.

Gibbs, standing next to him, waited for the doors to close before giving him a look of frank appraisal. "You all right? You're looking a little off-balance there."

"I'm fine," Tony said. "Look, I'm not even holding the handrail."

"That's not what I meant, DiNozzo, and I think you know it."

Tony hesitated a long moment, then reached out and hit the emergency stop button. "The Winchesters are sadistic torture-murderers. They're serial spree killers, for God's sake. And I was helpless. I was chained, spread-eagled, to an iron bedstead with four sets of handcuffs and nothing to pick the locks. Plus, y'know," he grimaced, tipped his head and pointed in the general direction of the knot on the back of it.

"Yeah. So?"

"So why am I not dead?"

"I don't know. When we catch them, we'll ask them." There was no doubt in Gibbs' voice whatsoever that they _would_ catch the Winchester brothers. He was steadfast and reassuring.

Tony pursed his lips, considered. Gibbs waited, patient.

"I wanted to like him," Tony confessed finally.

"Which one?"

"Well, both of them, really. Dean especially. I don't know what the hell's wrong with my instincts, but he just did not _seem_ like a bloodthirsty psychopath."

"What did he seem like?"

"A guardian. A protector. You know, he treated his brother pretty much exactly the same way I treat McGee?" He hesitated. "Is that what I'd have become if I'd ever gone darkside? Am I basically just another Dean Winchester, but with a better wardrobe? Could he have seen something of himself in me? Is that why they let me go, do you think?"

"What I think is that you've had a very unnerving experience, and because you don't fully understand what happened and why it happened, you're having a hard time putting it behind you. So now you're over-thinking things. There's not some . . . ," Gibbs paused, searching for words, "some reservoir of darkness inside you that might creep out if you don't keep it under control. You're not a potential serial killer. That isn't who you are. You're a good cop, Tony. And a good man. Everybody feels like they're faltering sometimes. When that happens, you lean on your family. We'll see you through."

"And now you're being uncharacteristically nice to me. Am I dying and nobody told me?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On how long you keep this elevator stopped."

"Oh. Right. Gotcha, Boss. Sorry, Boss!" Tony pulled the knob out and the elevator jerked into motion. Just before they reached the basement Gibbs reached towards the back of his senior field agent's head. Tony ducked instinctively, expecting a head slap, but Gibbs just gently ruffled his hair. Then he got off the elevator and didn't look back.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

Autopsy was bright and cool and there were four mostly-complete skeletons laid out on four of the tables. Jimmy Palmer was working at a fifth table, transferring the bones of the final skeleton from a body bag and assembling them as he went.

Ducky looked up as they entered and greeted them warmly. "Ah, Jethro. Good to see you. And you, Tony." He sharpened his gaze on the younger agent. "Aren't you supposed to be at home?"

Gibbs grinned sardonically. "He is home, Duck. Whaddya got?"

Ducky frowned suspiciously at Tony, who smiled widely in return, then turned his attention to his skeletons.

"Allow me to introduce you to my charming young companions. Five young ladies, all between the ages of sixteen and twenty-three, all strangled."

"Strangled?"

"Without question. In each case, the hyoid bone is fractured. Also, we found fragments of a heavy cord in three of the graves. Abby is running tests, but they appear to be the type of ropes used for decorative purposes in curtains or tapestries. It is also probable that they were originally red."

"Sure sounds like Abner Littlefield," Gibbs said.

"Well, they were buried in his grandmother's cellar."

"But how did the Winchesters know they were down there?" Tony asked.

"They do say it takes a thief to catch a thief," Ducky reminded them.

"They went directly to the grave."

"Actually," Jimmy Palmer spoke up, "actually they dug around quite a bit before they hit bone."

"It was dark," Gibbs said reasonably. "You were sitting across the cellar. You had a head injury. There's no great mystery here. It was a small cellar and there were five bodies. The Winchesters guessed that Littlefield might have started killing a lot earlier than authorities believed, they dug up the cellar of the house where he lived as a teenager, they found more victims. It doesn't mean anything."

"It might mean one thing," Ducky countered.

"Oh?"

"It might very well suggest that the Winchesters themselves also started killing long before the authorities began to suspect them."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

Ziva was waiting for them when they got back to the bullpen. "The Hersch family checked out. The story on the website was true - or, at least, mostly true."

"Mostly true?" Gibbs prompted.

"The mall is supposed to be haunted, though stories about who or what haunts it vary. The girls are both interested in ghosts and were aware of the stories. The younger sister has a reputation for being imaginative. She does claim, fervently, that she saw her great-great-aunt's ghost. However, it's worth noting that, contrary to her sister's account, she did not volunteer a description. Her great-grandmother asked her if the ghost looked like Honey Wheeler and she said yes."

"So, a vague ghost story, an imaginative ten-year-old, and an elderly woman who knows that they're standing on the site of a long-ago family tragedy. A string of coincidences."

"Wouldn't it be something, though," Tony said, "if the body the Winchesters dug up really was Jenny Carver?"

"Well, we should know by tomorrow. I got blood and hair samples from Jenny's sister and took them down to Abby."

"But, still," he sank into his chair and leaned back, face drawn in thought. "The story they told me was true."

"Again," Ziva said, "mostly true."

"Mostly true?" Gibbs repeated.

"Serial killers lied?" Tony gasped. "I'm shocked! I tell ya, you can't trust anyone these days."

Ziva pulled a face at him, amusement pretending to be annoyance. "Not lied so much as . . . simplified. They have at least one contact that they're protecting. Plus, I think it's highly likely that the Winchesters themselves do not know the whole story of how they came to be involved in the search for Jenny Carver."

That got both men's attention.

"Have you looked at that ghost story website?" Ziva asked. "There are over 18,000 stories on there. Did it not occur to you to wonder how the Winchesters, who told Tony they 'don't usually deal with that sort of thing', got involved with this particular ghost?"

"Nope," Gibbs said.

"Nope?"

"Nope. I just expected you to figure it out."

She sighed and smiled a little. "Of course."

"So?"

"So, Bianca Hersch posted her story on a Saturday morning. On Monday afternoon, when she left school, there was a strange man waiting for her at the bus stop."

"One of the Winchesters?"

"No, I have no idea who he was. He told her to call him Angus. She described him as average height, dark hair, very neat. She said he was British. He was very polite, but he gave her the creeps. Also, he smelled bad, like," Ziva wrinkled her nose, "rotten eggs."

"He's been staying somewhere with a private well. Sulfur water," Gibbs said. "Living off the grid, maybe?"

"That, or a diet high in cabbage," Tony suggested flippantly.

Gibbs granted him a slight smile and a tip of the head. "Or that. What did he want?"

"He knew about Bianca's post on the ghost website. He offered to introduce her to someone who could help find Jenny's body. She asked him if he was a ghost hunter and he said, no, but that he knew two brothers who were. He said they were good, probably the best in the world, but that they were very busy and hard to find. The trick would be getting in touch with them and convincing them to help."

"And how much did this help run, in U.S. dollars?" Tony asked cynically.

"What I was wondering," Gibbs agreed.

"And I, but apparently there was no charge. Angus gave them a phone number and very specific, rather odd instructions on what to say to the person at the other end. He said that Bianca's grandmother should be the one to call, and when she did she should say that she was looking for 'Bobby's boys'. She was supposed to tell the person at the other end that Bobby had said they could help her if she ever needed help and he wasn't available. If she was asked how she knew Bobby, she was to say, 'in the Biblical sense'."

Tony snickered and Gibbs shot him a glare that held no heat. "Y'know, DiNozzo, you're not gonna have that concussion forever. Eventually, I will start headslapping you again."

"Right, Boss. Sorry, Boss. Thanks, Boss."

"So they made their phone call. Then what happened?"

"They made their phone call," Ziva agreed, "and the man who answered listened to their story. He said he couldn't guarantee that 'the boys' would be able to help, but promised that even if they couldn't, someone would look into it. Twenty minutes later a different man called back and asked them to go through the story again. Bianca's grandmother asked him if he was one of the boys and he said yes, he was Sam. She went over Jenny's disappearance with him and they let him talk to Angel - Bianca's little sister - about what she'd seen at the mall. He said they'd do what they could, and then he said his brother wanted to talk to Isobel."

"Isobel," Tony said, "that was Bianca's great-grandmother. Jenny Carver's sister, right? Just trying to keep the cast straight."

"Yes, that is correct. She talked to Sam's brother, presumably Dean Winchester. He told her that he understood what she was feeling, because he was an older sibling too. He gave her his personal word that, 'come hell or high water', he would bring her sister's body home. She said he was the nicest, kindest and most caring man she'd ever spoken to in her life, and that if she was forty years younger, she'd marry him."

"Did you tell her she was talking to a serial killer?"

"I do not think she would have believed me if I had. Oh! And there was one other odd thing I forgot to mention. A word."

"A word?"

"Yes. Angus, when he was giving them instructions for the call, told them not to mention him under any circumstances. But he said that, if anyone asked Bianca's grandmother for more details about her fictional relationship with 'Bobby', she should tell them it was none of their business and call them," she consulted her notes, "idjits."

Tony frowned. "You mean idiots?"

"No, not idiots. Idjits. Is that even a word?"

"It's a word," Gibbs confirmed. "Good word. What about the phone number?"

"I left it with Abby when I took her the DNA samples. She's working on cell phone records now."

Gibbs stood. "Great. Let's go see if she's got anything for us. Come on. Idjits."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

They found McGee in the elevator, struggling under the weight of four cup carriers, each holding 4 giant-sized CaffPows. Gibbs didn't react but Tony and Ziva both gave him suspicious stares as they entered the car with him. He greeted them gladly.

"Hey, guys! Where you going?"

"Down to see Abby," Tony said.

"Oh, good! Could you maybe help me carry these?"

They each took a carrier and Gibbs finally cocked an eyebrow at his agent. "You in trouble, McGee?"

"Oh, we're all about to be in trouble."

"Really?" Tony asked. "Please, share with the class."

"Okay, well, you all know how Abby gets when she has to re-do another agency's forensics? Especially if it's maybe screwed up somehow? I mean, like, sloppy reports and broken chains of evidence and missing evidence and things that weren't stored properly. Or even just anything that's not been handled according to her high standards?"

"Anything that was processed by someone other than Abby, you mean?" Ziva asked with a small smile.

"Exactly!"

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "I take it Fornell's here with our files and evidence?"

"Uh, yeah. Some of it. The evidence technicians are checking in the first load now."

"The _first_ load?" Tony clarified.

"Yup."

Gibbs took the cartons of CaffPow from them, handing McGee a single cup. "No need to get her upset before she even sees it. Just give her this one and I'll take care of the rest. We'll listen to whatever she's found in the cell phone records and then we'll all go down and see what Tobias brought us."

McGee entered Abby's lab first, CaffPow held in front of him like a shield, but Abby ignored him to march over and stand in front of Tony. She put her hands on her hips, leaned her face close to his, and glared at him.

"You're in trouble buster!"

"I'm sorry?"

"You should be! How long have you been in the building? Why didn't you come down and see me and let me know that you were all right?"

Tony met her gaze and spoke with full sincerity. "I'm sorry, Abby. But, I have a concussion. I was afraid that, if I came into your presence too soon, the sheer power of your awesomeness would make my head explode."

Abby leaned back and her fierce scowl became a beatific smile. She threw her arms around Tony's neck and gathered him into a crushing hug. "Oh, Tony! We were so worried about you!"

"I know. I'm sorry. But it's nice that you care enough _to_ worry."

"Do we need to break out the violins?" Gibbs asked sardonically, coming up behind them.

Abby spun to look at him, face alight. "Actually -"

"That wasn't a legitimate offer, Abs." He took the CaffPow from McGee and held it tantalizingly just out of reach. "What have you got for us?"

She made a sour face and headed for her computer. "Probably not enough to earn that. The Winchesters are good. I mean very good. _Scary_ good, which is probably fitting because they're scary in so many other ways too. Did you see those videos of them killing people on the news last year? I mean, the videos on the news of them killing people? And they keep coming back to life, which is just all kinds of creepy."

Gibbs shook the CaffPow. "Ice is melting."

"Right." She picked up a cell phone sealed in an evidence bag. "The phone they left for Tony. It was purchased six months ago for cash at a convenience store in Caspar, Wyoming. The store still had the security video." She clicked and the security video ran on the screen. "Dean Winchester was the one who bought it. He also purchased a fifth of Jack Daniels, a case of beer, a giant bag of peanut M and M's, cheese puffs, corn chips, two sub sandwiches - one meatball and one roasted chicken - and eighteen gallons of gas."

"I'm more interested in what they've been doing more recently. They had to activate that phone for Tony to call out. That should leave a trace, right?"

"It _should_. It did not. As far as I can tell, they hacked directly into the phone company. So, I decided to try and locate their phones. In this day and age it stands to reason that they would each have one. They almost always travel together. Using cell phone tower records, I looked for cell phones that were in the vicinity of the old Littlefield farm at the same time Tony was. Since no one but Tony made any actual calls from the farm, I was just able to look for phones in the same general service area. Then I narrowed it down to pairs of phones that moved in tandem, and then I looked at those for phones that traveled extensively. And I found them."

"That's good work, Abs. I thought you said you didn't earn your CaffPow."

"Yeah." She looked down at her shoes. "Maybe you'd better go ahead and give it to me before I tell you the rest."

Instead of her drink, Gibbs gave her a stern look. She sighed.

"There was one other clue that these were the two phones we were looking for. They both went dark right after the Winchesters left Tony."

"But that's still something," McGee said, enthusiastically. "We can check their call logs. Find out who they've been calling and get a line on their associates."

Abby just looked at him. "Do you think I didn't think of that, _Agent_ McGee? The most common number that each called, was the other number."

"They're together all the time," Tony said. "Why call each other?"

Abby gave him a 'pity the silly people' look and pretended to be talking on the phone, running through a variety of different voices. "Hey, pick up some more toothpaste. Get me a burger. You're not out doing something stupid, are you? Do I need to come bail you out of jail?"

"Okay, okay. Point taken. But there were other numbers?"

"There were. There were three numbers that they each called and received calls from frequently. In fact, they called each of them just before their phones went dark. And then, each of those phones went dark too. I can't track those phones physically because each of them had had their GPS disabled, and when I pulled the records for those numbers, each of those phones called and received calls only from the Winchesters."

"Paranoid," Tony said.

"But good," McGee observed.

"So are you, Abby," Gibbs said, handing over the CaffPow. "Got anything else for us?"

She slurped on her straw and shrugged. "A lot of negatives, mostly. That blanket they covered Tony with was stained with blood, mud, mildew, motor oil, vegetation, beer, whiskey, and, as near as I can tell, cobra venom."

"_Cobra venom?_"

"I think so. It's pretty badly decomposed and I couldn't give you a 100% guarantee that's what it was, but that's my best guess. The mud and vegetation were from multiple sources, the mildew is a common variety found all over the United States, and the blood all belonged to one or the other of the Winchesters. Oh, and the phone number that this Angus character gave the Hersch family is registered to someone who calls himself 'G-Man'. He makes a _lot_ of calls, but none of them were to the Winchesters. There's a definite connection there, though. G-Man received a call from the Hersches' phone and then one of the Winchesters made a call to the Hersches' phone."

"Should we go pick him up, Boss?" Tony asked.

"We?" Gibbs asked sarcastically. "You getting over that concussion already, DiNozzo?"

"Um, right. Sorry. Silly question. So, uh, should Ziva and McGee go pick him up, Boss?"

Gibbs thought about it.

"Is his GPS thing working?"

"GPS?" Abby asked with a smile. "It is."

"Good. For now, let's just keep an eye on him. He just might be our ace in the hole."

Gibbs' phone rang and he peered nearsightedly at the readout before answering it. "Yeah, Tobias, whaddya want? . . . Yeah, well, I heard you'd only brought the first load, didn't see any point in coming down until it was all there . . . of course we want to see it . . . certainly we appreciate your diligence . . . in fact, I know Abby's especially looking forward to seeing what kind of work your FBI forensics teams do. Hey! Why don't I give her your number, so she can share her conclusions with you personally?" He held the phone out away from his ear and they could all hear shouting coming from the other end. Gibbs laughed and closed the phone mid-rant.

"I believe our presence is requested in the evidence garage."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

"I think I'm going to be sick," Abby said.

The evidence garage was full. One end was taken up by file boxes - maybe 300 of them. The rest of the floor space was given over to all manner of random objects. Tobias Fornell stood in the middle of it all with a smug expression on his face.

"There's three more cars and a refrigerator outside," he said. "Your evidence garage wasn't big enough to hold it all."

"They just threw us everything except the kitchen sink," McGee breathed in awed dismay.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Tony was wondering the room. He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, then slid an object away from the wall and tipped it so they could see. It was a kitchen sink.

"This your idea of a joke, Fornell?" Gibbs asked.

"No, this is my idea of karma. You wanted the Winchester case, you've got it." He smiled a shark's smile. "You have to take it, Jethro." He flicked the paper Vance had given him. "I've got a court order."

Gibbs made a face and took the master list to sign off.

"Dry wall?" Tony asked, still poking around.

"That's a hotel room," Fornell told him. "All of that stuff goes together. There's the walls, the ceiling, the floor, rug, doors, windows, furnishings, and the bathroom and bathroom fixtures."

"There's no hot water knob on the tub."

"It was a very cheap hotel."

"Even cheaper now, I'll bet."

Gibbs stepped close to Fornell and lowered his voice. "You really think all of this is connected to the Winchesters?"

Fornell shrugged. "Special Agent Henrikson did. Good man, Henrikson. Maybe just a trifle . . . _obsessed_. Let me know when you want some help with this."

"There any kind of order to this mess?"

"The files are color coded. The Winchesters stand accused of three major crimes: The torture-murders in St. Louis; A bank robbery in Detroit; and last year's cross-country killing spree. They were also connected to two other high-profile crimes - a double murder in Baltimore and the Bender case. Then there's the explosion in Monument, Colorado, that killed Henrikson. Files and evidence concerned with those six cases are in boxes or containers marked with a red dot.

"A green dot means financial crimes - mostly credit card fraud and/or insurance fraud. All of those cases that we have information on are now outside the statute of limitations.

"Blue dots are for property crimes, including vandalism and grave desecration. Again, most if not all of these are now outside the statute of limitations.

"Files marked with a yellow dot, which you'll find is most of them, are for crimes with a more tenuous connection to the Winchesters. That's everything from serial killers to bar fights."

"Okay, thanks. That should help."

"Yeah, well, I want these bastards, Gibbs. I'd prefer that we be the ones to catch them, but if you can do it, I'm not going to stand in your way."

With the last of the evidence unloaded and all the paperwork signed, Fornell took off. Gibbs called his people together.

"Okay, so Fornell told me the files are color-coded. DiNozzo, you've got the red dots. David, blue and green and McGee gets the yellow. Tim, your files are all cases that only might be connected. For now, just do an inventory and plot the cases on a map and a time-line. Got it?"

They agreed that they had.

"I'm going to have Ducky do a psychological work up on them. He'll tell you what to look for. Copy him on any files he wants."

"What am I supposed to do, Gibbs?" Abby asked plaintively. "I . . . I can't . . . It would take months, no _ years_ to go through all this evidence."

"I know, Abs. If we need you to look for something in particular, or look _at_ something in particular, we'll let you know. In the meantime, I just want you to explore."

"Explore?"

"Yeah. Explore. Poke around. Look at anything that strikes your fancy."

She sighed. "I'm gonna need a lotta CaffPow."

"Got a whole refrigerator full in your office."

"I do?"

"Yup."

She smiled then, though, by Abby standards, it was a pale and somewhat wan smile. "I don't suppose you have any suggestions about where to start?"

He shrugged. "I'd start with the cars."

"The cars? Why?"

"So we can get rid of them."


	4. Patriot Games

Author's note: Again, everyone, thank you so much for the reviews, follows and favorites! I still don't have the Internet issues fixed (hoping to get it ironed out next week but no guarantees), but as soon as I do I will answer everyone personally, I promise.

Just to clear this up, I'm going on the assumption that the Winchesters are intelligent enough and experienced enough to cover their tracks whenever possible, so I'm not looking for there to be a lot of evidence on things we didn't actually see in the show. (Stray monster bodies and so forth.) If you remember from the episode with Nora and her clan, the vampire that Sam and Dean examined at the morgue had fangs that could be made to slide out by pushing on its gums. If hunters regularly let a thing like that make its way into the hands of authorities, a lot more people would know a lot more about the supernatural than they do.

Also, I'm trying to keep a lot of things straight here, canon for both shows, the main story line for this story and a handful of side stories, so if anyone sees that I've got something mixed up please don't hesitate to sing out.

It's kind of funny, but trying to write this and do justice to the intelligence of all the characters on both shows is remarkably like playing chess with myself. Thanks again, to everyone, for joining me in the game!

Short chapter this time, but it seemed like a good place to leave it. I'll update again as soon as I'm able. Hope you all enjoy and thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: Life is an illusion - a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

by elfinblue

Chapter 4: Patriot Games

His car dropped him off and, as he made his way to the main entrance, NCIS Director Vance cast a wary eye at the construction project that had sprung up in front of his building. Orange barricades kept anyone from stepping off the sidewalk. Wrought iron railings now lined the shrubbery on both sides and two burly construction workers in orange safety vests and hardhats were using an auger to drill horizontally under the concrete walkway.

Vance stopped beside them and presently the one on his left, a young blond giant with serious eyes behind his protective goggles, glanced up.

"Sir?"

"What are you doing, exactly?"

"Uh, installing wrought iron railings around the decorative planting."

"I can see that. Why are you going under the sidewalk?"

"It's in the project specs, to conform to the United States Government's Uniform Building Code. 'All decorative installations on U.S. property shall be securely anchored to deter theft.'"

"Yeah." His buddy, a cheerful redhead with an enormous beard, gave the director an impudent grin. "We can't make it easy for someone to steal several hundred pounds of iron from around a federal law enforcement building in the middle of a Navy base."

Vance grinned himself at the observation. "No, I suppose we can't, can we? Very well. Carry on."

He stepped by them as they fed a long, iron bar under the sidewalk and continued up to his office. When he arrived he called for his secretary.

"Get me the work orders and bid history for the construction project out front. Put them up on the wall screen."

When the documents were displayed, he studied them, noting the private construction company name with a small snort and digging deeper for a background on the business and its owners. 'James Singer and Robert Murphy', it said. They were a couple of years apart in age and had grown up next door to each other. Singer, the redhead, had gone to a technical college and worked construction for ten years before they started the business. Murphy had a degree in business management from a community college. They had put in the low bid for the project and there was a letter of recommendation in the file from a member of congress. Vance, who knew the congressman slightly, was not surprised to see that Murphy's wife was the same age as the congressman's daughter and had graduated from the same women's college.

"S and M Construction?"

Vance turned at the skeptical tone to find Gibbs had strolled in without knocking.

"The owners' initials. They're young men, though, so I'm sure the double entendre is intentional."

"Is there a problem?"

"No. The project's been in the pipeline since the rebuilding. I just didn't remember seeing anything about it so I thought I'd check. I tend to get a little nervous about things like that, since the explosion." Vance closed out the file and turned away. "You got anything for me?"

"Besides an evidence garage full of Winchester memorabilia?"

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

"You think he bought it?"

Dean grinned behind his false beard. "Of course he bought it. Who wouldn't buy it?"

"Seriously? S and M Construction? Yeah, that sounds like a real, upstanding business to me."

"And nobody blinked an eye. Y'gotta love Washington."

They had started in the back of the building, just as exposed but with less traffic and fewer people to notice when Dean, mumbling Latin, dropped a crucifix through a maintenance hatch into the building's water main. Now they threaded iron bolts through the holes connecting the iron bars under the front walkway to the iron railings on either side. That completed the circuit - the NCIS building was now entirely encased in a protective iron barricade.

"I gotta say," Sam observed, "the disguises were a good idea." They loaded their tools and the barricades onto the hand cart they'd used to carry them to the building. "Hey, what do you think I'd look like with facial hair?"

"Chewbacca," Dean said without missing a beat.

Sam gave him a small bitchface. Then, because sometimes he asked questions just to see what answers his brother came up with, he added, "okay, then, what do you think I'd look like bald?"

"A water tower."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

The auto body shop had a lot in the back surrounded by a high board fence and accessed through an alley protected by a chain-link gate. Dean drove the pickup they were using back through the gate and tucked it out of sight under a tarp in the far corner of the lot, while Sam locked the gate and went back into the building through a side door.

The pickup hadn't been running when they found it, and Dean had spent most of the previous day working on it while Sam tracked down and acquired the wrought iron they needed to protect the NCIS building. Then they'd stayed up all night etching the wrought iron with protective sigils while Charlie hacked in the work order and built backgrounds for them and their imaginary business. By billing it to the government, they'd covered the cost of the materials and even gotten paid for their construction work. It would have looked suspicious otherwise.

Dean entered the garage through the back door and checked to make sure no one was peering in the window at the Impala before he popped her trunk and pulled out a duffel and sleeping bag. Since he'd put her in the show window, Baby had attracted a respectable handful of admiring passers-by. Seeing them always gave Dean a strange feeling, a mixture between pride and paranoia.

Sam was back in the office, checking up on NCIS via their hacked link.

"The director pulled our work order and ran our backgrounds, but he seems to have bought it. He closed out the file and moved on to other things."

"Good job." Dean dropped the duffel and sleeping bag in his brother's lap. "There's a cot back there, and a shower in the other washroom. Why don't you get cleaned up and get some sleep? I'll take first watch."

"You think we need to sleep in shifts?"

"I think I won't feel comfortable if we let our guard down. Besides, there's only one cot back there and it sure as hell won't fit a full-grown man _and_ a Chewbacca."

"Okay, fine. Then why don't I take the first watch?"

"'Cause I said."

"Dean." Sam bitchfaced him. "I thought we were supposed to be equal partners."

"We are equal partners. But I'm still the big brother and that means I'm the boss of you. Besides, you smell worse than I do."

Sam glowered and geared up for a fight, but Dean forestalled him by holding up a hand and gentling his voice. "Seriously, Sam. You look beat. I got this."

Sam's anger evaporated and he reluctantly relinquished his place in front of the laptop. "You've gotta be tired too," he said, lingering by the doorway. "Call me in a couple of hours, or whenever you get sleepy."

Dean, already engrossed in the computer screen, waved one hand absently.

"Dean," Sam insisted. "I mean it."

Dean half turned, irritable. "Okay, fine. I said okay. I will call you in a couple of hours or whenever I get tired. Okay?"

The front half of the storeroom held car parts, tools and tires. The back half had a bathroom with a tiny shower, a table with one chair, a narrow cot, a refrigerator and a microwave. Sam twisted himself pretzel-like into the shower, then spread his sleeping bag on the cot and crawled into it without bothering to even eat first.

This place was depressing, the dreary refuge of a man who'd lived alone and died unmourned. It stank of grease and old tires and loneliness and Sam fell asleep worrying about Dean.

When he woke he was annoyed but unsurprised to find the room in complete darkness. He staggered around until he found the light switch and checked his watch. He'd been asleep for almost nine hours. The time put a knot of tension in his gut, but it eased as he neared the office and heard Dean talking quietly. His deep voice was relaxed, a raspy yet melodic drawl, like an old, whiskey-soaked blues singer.

Though he didn't always show it, Sam had worried about his brother for years. As their scars multiplied and their losses mounted, Dean's smiles had become more brittle, his laughter more hollow. Sam had tried to compensate by taking some of his brother's burdens, and been hurt and angry when Dean resisted his attempts to share the load. Now, though, he was wondering if he had gotten it backwards.

Being back on the Most Wanted List was a pain in the ass, but, oddly enough, this case seemed to be good for Dean. The world's fiercest and most heavily-armed mother hen had acquired an entire federal agency full of new chicks and it was bringing out the old Dean, the guardian, the paladin, the protector . . .

"But I don't think that it matters that Dorneget's gay. If she's not getting engaged because she has a crush on a co-worker that she obviously doesn't know very well, then she's really not ready for the commitment anyway."

. . . the closet soap opera buff.

"Dean? What the hell? I thought you promised to wake me up in two hours?"

"_Or_ when I got tired. I'm not tired yet."

"Bull. Hi, Charlie."

Dean's cell sat on the desk, open and on speaker, obviously the source of the second voice he'd heard.

"Hey, Sam! Listen, if a girl's putting her whole life on hold because she's crushing on a gay guy that she doesn't know is gay, don't you think it would be a good idea to give her a heads up?"

"No. I think you both should stay out of their private lives. How do you even know this stuff?" He glanced down at the computer screen. "You're watching security video, for crying out loud! There's not even any audio."

"We're _observing_," Dean said. "Watching their body language and interactions, picking up tells."

"Hacking their emails," Charlie put in cheerfully. "Seriously, I think I should come to Washington and help you out. Maybe I could get a job at NCIS. Be your inside girl."

"She's got the hots for Abby," Dean explained. "Or Ziva."

"Or both," Charlie put in. "I try to never limit my expectations."

"Yeah, but I'm telling you, you're out of luck," Dean said. "Abby and McGee are just dancing around the invertible, and there is definitely something going on between Tony and Ziva, though I don't think even they know what."

"Spoilsport! Listen, I gotta run. If you need me, call me. But if you don't,_ don't._"

"Hot date?"

"I hope so."

"Well, listen. If you get lucky, I want a play-by-play."

"With pictures," she promised. "And audio. Later, bitches!"

Charlie hung up and Dean snapped his phone closed, caught a glance at the look on Sam's face and laughed. "What? You have a problem with alternative lifestyles?"

"No, just sexual promiscuity and voyeurism."

"Prude."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

A loud knock on the outside door interrupted their sparkling repartee. They both froze. Dean touched a button on the computer and the screen changed to a view of the door from outside.

"Pizza guy," he said.

"This place has security cameras?"

"It does now." Dean offered Sam his wallet. "You wanna get that, since you're rested and all?"

Sam pulled a face, but he took the wallet and went to answer the door.

The delivery guy was an overweight teenager with pasty-pale skin and thick glasses. Sam made him wait while he dug out cash. Back on the feds' radar, they weren't using plastic. Fortunately, Jim Singer and Bobby Murphy had just gotten paid.

"So are you guys opening the shop again?" the kid asked.

"Nah," Sam told him. "Mr. Preston died without heirs, so eventually the government will come in and liquidate the place's assets - at auction, probably - and then sell the building. We're just here to clean up and inventory and assess the contents."

"Will they sell the cars, do you think?" The young man's voice was wistful. "I'd sure like to get my hands on that pretty black Chevy in the window."

Sam grinned. "Yeah. You and a lot of other people." He handed over a handful of bills and took their order, wished the kid a good evening and juggled the door closed.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

When the majority of the pizza was gone and the remains put away, Sam waited for Dean to go claim his turn at the cot. When he just lingered, keeping an eye on the NCIS security video, Sam narrowed his eyes and calculated.

"So what's going on at NCIS that's so interesting? Besides their sex lives, I mean."

"Besides their sex lives? That limits it. I suppose that means you're not interested in the probationary agent who's having a meet-and-grope with one of the baggy bunnies in a broom closet off the evidence lockers?"

"That would be exactly what it means. Baggy bunnies?"

"Evidence technicians. That's what DiNozzo calls them."

"Yeah, it would be. So what else is keeping you tied to the screen?"

"Well, it might be nothing."

Sam raised a questioning eyebrow at his brother and Dean tapped a key and brought up an external shot of the main entrance. The timestamp on the image showed just after five P.M. and the egress was busy with people leaving for the day. Dean manipulated the image - and when had he learned how to do _that_? - and focused on a woman in her thirties coming out with a briefcase.

"Janice Fremont," he said. "She's a clerk in the accounting division."

Janice came out the door, crossed the concrete apron outside the entrance and stopped dead just before she got to the point at which the sidewalk crossed over the iron bar. A look of dismay crossed her face. She patted her pockets, made a show of searching her briefcase, then turned and went back inside.

"Could be a coincidence. Maybe she forgot something. This was," Sam checked his watch, "almost four hours ago. What's she done since?"

Dean pulled up a rapid series of security shots. "Went back to her office, spent a long time on her computer, made a couple of phone calls. Now, she's pacing the building."

Sam went back to the first video and focused on her even closer. "Looks like she's wearing a bluetooth."

Dean picked one of their burn phones up from the desk and handed it over. "This is already linked up with her earpiece. The signal will piggyback off her phone for strength, but she won't be able to shut it off."

"Nice. Charlie?"

"Who else?"

"So what are we waiting for?"

"All that pacing, I thought I'd wait and see if she got thirsty."

They watched her for another half hour before she stopped by a water fountain in a deserted hallway. She curled one hand around the nozzle and reached to push the lever. Sam turned on his burn phone and raised it to his mouth as she leaned in and started the fountain. The first blossom of water hit her lips and she recoiled and screamed as steam billowed up around her. Her hand closed reflexively and as she shied away, she ripped the nozzle loose, sending a steady stream of water up to shower down on her. Sam spoke swiftly over her screaming.

"_Spiritus immundus, spiritus Satanicus, spiritus infernalis audite me! . . . ._"

As he finished the exorcism Janice's mouth opened impossibly wide and a billow of black smoke streamed out, spiraled angrily around the ceiling and then disappeared into the floor.

When Agents DiNozzo, David, and McGee arrived a few seconds later, guns drawn, in response to her screams, they found Janice slumped against the wall, cowering away from the spray of water and sobbing uncontrollably.

"DiNozzo will help her up," Dean predicted. "She'll latch onto him and get his suit all wet and he'll be dismayed. He'll let McGee and David see that, but not her. McGee will open the water fountain to get to the shutoff valve and David will call for maintenance."

They watched as it played out just as Dean had said.

"Agent David doesn't seem too impressed by a woman getting hysterical over a little water," Sam observed.

"Have you seen her file? I don't think she'd be too impressed by a woman getting hysterical over being shot or stabbed. I've been playing 'count the weapons' with her. Besides her service revolver, she's got a backup in her left boot, throwing knives up both sleeves, the chain her Star of David is on is woven with steel wire and would make a good garotte in a pinch, and there's something down the back of her shirt. I can't decide if it's another knife or a shuriken."

"A shuriken, Dean? Seriously?"

Dean pulled up a security shot showing Ziva David from the back and zeroed in on her blouse just above her waist.

Sam peered closely at the image. "Huh. You're right. It could be." He pulled the computer over towards himself. "Here, let me in here for a minute."

"What are you doing?"

"Scrubbing the holy water steam and demon smoke out of the security video, just in case anyone looks. Go to bed, Dean."

Dean scrubbed one hand down his face and, for the first time, his fatigue showed through. "We need to do more," he insisted. "I made a list of people I think need extra protection."

Sam finished with his video editing, pushed the computer away and picked up a stenographer's notebook that lay on the desk, covered with Dean's careful, blocky script.

"Gibbs, DiNozzo, David, McGee, Sciuto, Mallard, Palmer, Vance, Dorneget. Why them?"

"Gibbs and his team because they were the ones investigating the demon terrorists and now they're the ones chasing us, which is also likely to put them on hell's radar. Abby and the M.E.'s because they're close to Gibbs' team and could be used for leverage, Director Vance because he's got a lot of power and could do a lot of damage. Dorneget because he's been given the terrorist case to do the follow up on, now that the others are focused on us."

"Okay, that makes sense."

"Great! So, what sort of protection should we figure on?"

"I don't know, Dean. We'll figure something out. But not tonight. Seriously, man. Sleep. You've been awake for like thirty-six hours now. You need to rest. I've got this. I'll take care of it."

Dean gave in with a shrug and a sigh. He stood and stretched and yawned an enormous, jaw-popping yawn. Before he headed back to the cot he leaned over and put a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"If you catch anybody doing anything kinky," he said, "bookmark it for me."


	5. A Study in Scarlet

Author's Note: Thanks you, everyone, so much for all the kind reviews, alerts and favorites! Again, sorry for not replying personally to all the reviews yet. I'm still having Internet issues AND Fate has apparently taken offense to me somehow because earlier this week she threw a big snowstorm at me that left me stranded and without power for three day. Consequently, this chapter isn't as long as I would have liked it to be. (I ran down my laptop battery the first day!) Anyway, I suppose Ducky needs time to work, so perhaps it's just as well that this chapter stops where it does. When we return to the NCIS crew in two chapters, I'm going to be taking some liberties with shapeshifter biology. My aim is to come up with something the agents and scientists can accept without compromising on Supernatural canon. I will be back with more Winchesters as soon as I am able and, again, thank you for your kindness and patience.

Disclaimer: I am aware of the Bermuda Triangle, but I am not responsible for its existence.

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

by

elfinblue

Chapter 5: A Study in Scarlet

_St. Louis, Missouri_

Drought had parched the Midwest for far too long, but the thunderstorm that rumbled its way towards the city held the promise of good crops this year and rivers swollen back to their normal levels. A few miles from where the Big Muddy met the Mighty Mississippi, Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard stood in a paupers' graveyard and watched a backhoe pull up rich, black earth.

The grave was marked simply. They all were. Headstones were rare here, graves marked with laminated paper tags bearing the decedent's name and dates of birth and death, tucked into holders on metal stakes. It was less a last resting place than it was a filing system, Ducky thought. _Here is where we store our inconvenient dead._ The label on this drawer bore the name Dean Winchester. _It would seem you've been misfiled, my lad._

An Army work detail waited to escort Dr. Mallard and his new acquaintance to the nearest Air Force Base, where a cargo jet would return them to D.C.. The sergeant in charge of the detail stood next to Ducky, and he was inclined to chat.

"Funny seeing Navy people so far inland."

"Not at all, Sergeant. Surely you're aware that your fair city has a proud place in Navy history? Why, it was right here in St. Louis that Captain James Eads (after whom the Eads Bridge is named) and his shipbuilding company constructed ironclads for the U.S. Navy during your country's Civil War. It's a most fascinating story! You see -"

"We've reached the coffin!" The shout, from the private tasked with directing the backhoe, interrupted Dr. Mallard's history lesson. Awkwardly, Ducky lowered himself to one knee in the mud next to the open grave and watched as the members of the work detail used shovels to finish clearing the simple pine box. There was no concrete vault protecting it and it had been in the ground for seven years, but it seemed to be intact.

The sergeant crouched beside him. "Don't understand why they didn't dig this guy up years ago."

"At one point, they intended to," Ducky said. The two men rose and backed up, giving the workers room to maneuver as they attached cables to the box and prepared to lift it. "When Dean Winchester surfaced alive in Baltimore, about a year after being supposedly killed here, the Baltimore Police Department filed for an exhumation order. However, they addressed it to the federal judge in East St. Louis, which was, of course, on the wrong side of the state line, and it was returned to them to be re-filed. By that time the Winchesters had escaped and the case against them had fallen apart, so the authorities in Baltimore never followed up. Later agencies who investigated them, however, seem to have been under the impression that it had been done and that it was a proven fact that Dean Winchester was correctly identified as the murderer and had subsequently - no one knew how - faked his own death."

The work detail had the coffin out and sitting on the ground next to the open grave now. The corporal who was second in command addressed Ducky. "Sir? Did you want to open it and make sure he's in there?"

"No, Corporal. I'll open it in autopsy, when I get it back to D.C.."

"Are you sure? It's pretty light for the body of a full-grown man."

"Yes, it would be. This individual, whoever he was, was buried unembalmed seven years ago. The remains are almost certainly skeletized."

"Huh." The sergeant cast the coffin a doubtful look. "How can it tell you anything if it's nothing but a skeleton?"

Ducky smiled. "My friend, you would be surprised how talkative a skeleton can be!"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

On Sunday, October 9, 2005, Zach Warren called 911 at 12:46 AM to report that he'd come home to find his girlfriend bound and beaten and that she wasn't breathing. Paramedics pronounced the girl dead at the scene. There was no sign of forced entry, no fingerprints or DNA from anyone other than Warren or the victim, and a security video from a building across the street showed Warren returning two hours earlier than he'd claimed, just after ten PM, half an hour before the time of death. In spite of his sister's insistence that he'd been with her until after midnight, it had seemed an open-and-shut case.

Then the Winchesters showed up and everything went sideways.

Tony DiNozzo paced the elegant living room, paused to read titles on the packed bookshelf. Fiction mostly, he noted. Classics, popular literature, mysteries, westerns, childrens' books. Most of the non-fiction was occult-related, newer books but well read.

He turned back to the lovely, self-possessed blonde woman who sat on the couch, politely waiting for him to speak.

"You already knew the Winchesters. How?"

"I knew Sam Winchester. Zach and I both did. He and Jess - his girlfriend, Jessica Moore - were part of our circle of friends at Stanford. She died in a fire during fall semester of his senior year. He took it hard. He'd taken summer classes and was only a few weeks from graduation. He'd come on a full ride and there was every reason to expect he'd get a full ride to law school too, but he dropped out. Left with his older brother."

"And you didn't see him again until _after_ the murder?"

"That's right. I'd emailed him about it and he and his brother just showed up on my doorstep."

"Claiming to be cops?"

"Claiming that Dean was." She smiled a little and shook her head. "Actually, looking back on it later, I think Sam made that up on the fly. Dean looked surprised when he said it, but then he covered for him. He said he was a detective in Bisbee, Arizona."

"So the three of you went off and breached a sealed crime scene to look for evidence that your brother was innocent." He smiled at her. "I might have done the same myself, if it was my brother, so you needn't look so chagrined. Although, it is a charming look for you. Chagrined."

"I told Zach's lawyer and he was furious. He checked up on their credentials and found out Dean wasn't really a detective, so I called Sam and told him to go away and leave us alone."

"And then Dean showed up at your door to apologize, you let him in and he assaulted you."

"Yes."

And there it was. She lowered her eyes, her voice caught ever so slightly, she turned her head to the left.

"You're lying to me." Tony let both the surprise and the certainty come through in his voice.

"What? No! How can you say that?"

"Then look me in the eye and tell me again."

"Dean Winchester assaulted me," she said, and she looked him in the eye but she couldn't hold his gaze and her voice shook. They both knew he wasn't buying it. "How can you doubt me? The SWAT team that rescued me saw him too. He threw his knife into one guy's shoulder and knocked another one down with some judo thing."

"So he did. And they did. And yet, you're lying. What was it really?" He gave her a wise speculative look, tipping his head to study her from another angle. "Sex? Kinky, S and M bondage game gone wrong?"

She actually laughed. "No, nothing like that."

"What, then?"

She spread her hands. "I don't know what to tell you."

"You could always try the truth."

She did look at him then, looked him square in the eye. "You wouldn't_ believe_ the truth," she said, an unconscious echo of Dean Winchester himself.

Tony dropped into an easy chair across from her, shook his head and gave her one of his charming smiles. "People keep telling me that. You know, you _could_ always give me a chance?"

Rebecca Warren grinned suddenly. "Okay, Special Agent DiNozzo. You want the truth? I'll tell you the truth. But if you repeat this to anyone, I'll deny every word. Or else, I'll just say I was stringing you along because you were being an ass."

"I've been accused of worse. Lay it on me."

"Fine. I was not assaulted by Dean Winchester. I was assaulted by a shapeshifter in the guise of Dean Winchester."

He just stared at her. "A shapeshifter." Now she _was_ telling the truth. Her eyes were steady, her voice calm with that hint of relief that honest people get when they are finally able to not lie.

"I told you you wouldn't believe me. Can you go now?"

"Now, now. Not so fast. Did I say I didn't believe you? Because I didn't hear me say I didn't believe you. You've just gotta give me a minute to let this soak in." He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, soaking. Then he huffed a short breath and settled himself. "Okay, so _why_ do you believe you were assaulted by a shapeshifter?"

"At first I thought it really was Dean. When I let him in the house, and then when he attacked me and all the time he was torturing me, and after, when I told the SWAT team that it was him, all that time I thought it was."

"So what made you change your mind?"

"I saw it change into _me_."

Tony blinked. "Come again?"

"I saw the shapeshifter change into me."

"And how did that happen?" He'd pegged her as sane, but now he was starting to wonder.

"I went out for a walk, to clear my head, and something hit me. Everything just went white. When I woke up, I was tied up down in the sewers, fastened to one of the pipes down there, and that _thing_ turned into me."

Her voice was shaky and tight again, but Tony recognized this too. It was the stress of reliving a traumatic memory. An impossible memory, but traumatic all the same. He studied her face. There were, of course, ways create the impossible. Drugs, hypnosis, the good, old-fashioned art of illusion.

"You say it turned into you. Did you _see_ it turn into you, or did it already look like you when you saw it?"

She hesitated and he read confusion on her face.

"Take your time. I'd rather have a slow truth than a quick half-truth."

"I can't honestly say for sure. When I woke up, I was disoriented. My head was pounding, my vision was blurry."

"You had a concussion." She'd been admitted for observation after Dean Winchester (or the shapeshifter, Tony thought dryly) was shot in her living room. Concussion and shock.

"Sometimes I think I remember seeing it change and sometimes I don't. But I did see it. I didn't imagine that. It was wearing my clothes and it gave me a creepy smile. Then it threw a tarp over my head and went away."

"How did you get away?"

"Dean found me. The real Dean, I mean. He'd come into the sewers hunting it. I told him it looked like me now and he said we had to get back to my house, because Sam had come here to see me. By the time we arrived it had changed to look like Dean again. Sam was fighting with it - we could hear them before we got inside. It had Sam pinned and was about to kill him, but Dean had a gun and he shot it twice and then it was dead."

"And you saw them both? Dean and the shapeshifter? At the same time?"

"I did."

"How much did it act like the real Dean? Voice? Mannerisms?"

She gave him a helpless look. "I don't really know. I never really knew Dean, you know. It was Sam I was friends with. I saw Dean around Stanford in the week after Jess died, but I was focused on Sam and my own grief. And then, when they showed up here after I emailed Sam, I was too worried about _my_ brother to pay attention to_ Sam's_. He didn't talk much, anyway, either time I saw him. Just kind of hovered in the background."

Tony stood, ready to leave. "One last question and then, I promise, I'll leave you alone. When you saw the shapeshifter, when it looked like you, how much did it look like you? Kind of? A lot? Mirror image?"

"Not a mirror image," she said. "More like a photograph. You know how you never think they look like you but other people always think they do?"

"Yes. I know exactly what you mean."

Outside the Warren home, the thunderstorm had gotten closer. The daylight was dim and ominous and made the dark green grass in their lawn stand out in contrast.

It was a thoughtful Tony DiNozzo who crossed that lawn and climbed into his rental car, to meet Ducky at the airfield for the flight back home.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

"Tony called."

Gibbs settled himself in his chair, set his coffee on his desk and gave McGee his attention.

"He and Ducky are at the airfield, but their plane is grounded while they wait out a thunderstorm. As soon as they get clearance for takeoff, they'll be on their way back."

"Good. And what have you two got for me?"

McGee and Ziva exchanged a tiny glance. McGee nodded at Ziva to go first. She made shooing motions at him.

Gibbs rolled his eyes.

"McGee. Go."

"Right, Boss. Um, not a lot, Boss. I mean, I don't like to speak ill of the dead, and I'm sure that Agent Henriksen was a good agent and a good man and everything. But, I think he was also . . . I don't know how to put this. Obsessed?"

"And why do you say that?"

"Because apparently he's taken every unsolved crime in the United States and attributed it to the Winchester brothers. For example," he picked up the remote control and clicked on the plasma. A map of the United States came up, covered with tiny dots. McGee pushed another button and several of the dots flared. "I have files on an unsolved exsanguination in Norfolk, Virginia; a triple homicide in Muncie, Indiana; a museum robbery in Lancaster, Pennsylvania; grave desecrations in Waterloo, Iowa, Macon, Georgia, and Bismark, North Dakota; and a bar fight in Carson, California."

"Okay. And?"

"They all happened within the same forty-eight hour period."

"Tell me why Henriksen thought each of those crimes was tied to the Winchesters."

"Well, the exsanguination because it was a bizarre murder and because the Winchesters spent three nights at a cheap motel on the outskirts of Norfolk almost six weeks later, under the names Dean Hetley and Samuel Hagar. The triple homicide because it was violent. I can't find anything else to tie that one in. The museum robbery because it was cleverly carried out and because there was a classic car show in town that weekend so he figured the Winchesters' Chevy wouldn't stand out. The grave desecrations were all cases where someone had dug up the grave and burned the remains. At least one of the reports noted salt in the grave. The bar fight started because two men who fit the Winchesters' descriptions were hustling pool."

"What was taken from the museum," Ziva asked, "and has it turned up again?"

"They took pretty much everything they could carry." McGee consulted a file folder on his desk. "The museum was in an old art studio and, when they converted it, they built a new ceiling that covered over the skylight, but they didn't actually remove the skylight. The thieves went in through the skylight, cut through the ceiling and dropped twenty feet to the floor. They got away with a collection of modern art inspired by Mesoamerican artifacts. Most of the pieces they took were gold and many were inlaid with precious stones. They ransomed two of the most valuable pieces back to the artist and probably melted down the rest. Some of the stones were unique enough to be identified by themselves and several have turned up on the black market."

"Hmph. It wasn't the Winchesters," Ziva said.

Gibbs swiveled his chair to look at her more directly. "You're awfully sure of that."

"Yes. I am." She smiled and tipped her head a bit, looking into the distance as she marshaled her thoughts. "The Winchesters are _accomplished_ thieves and con artists and at this point I can't begin to guess the reasons for the things they do, but they never, ever steal something just for the financial gain. If they did, with their skills, they could easily be millionaires many times over by now and living the good life on some tropical island that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the United States."

"They commit credit card and insurance fraud," McGee objected. "What is that for if not financial gain?"

"But on a relatively small scale. They could be committing identity theft or hacking into bank and brokerage accounts. Look at how they were able to hack into the cell phone company to activate Tony's cell. Instead, they simply apply for credit cards under assumed names. The cards they manage to get that way are unsecured lines of credit for small amounts, never more than $500. They spend the money mostly on the cheapest, sleaziest motels in existence, diner food, and gasoline for their car. Even when you consider that they augment their income by hustling, they have to be living near or below the poverty level."

"And the insurance fraud?" Gibbs asked.

"Is only ever to obtain medical treatment, and then only when one of them is in dire condition."

"They get hurt a lot?"

"Indeed. Whatever they are doing in their travels around the country, it is dangerous. Dean, especially, makes _Tony_ look careful and fortunate. In addition to the times one or the other has been hospitalized, there are sixteen instances where they've been implicated in burglaries at clinics or pharmacies. In each case, they left behind the majority of drugs that had street value. For example, they'd take one or two prescriptions-worth of pain killer from a locked cabinet, but leave everything else in the cabinet untouched. They also took, at various times, bandages, bandage tape, antiseptic, antibiotics, suture kits and, on two occasions, bags of saline and something called Ringer's Lactate and IV needles and tubing."

"They treat themselves," Gibbs noted. "Or, more likely, each other."

"So you don't think these are the kind of guys to go around robbing museums?" McGee asked.

"On the contrary, they've been implicated in several museum robberies. But, they don't clean the museums out, they've never offered anything for ransom, and there's no evidence they ever sold anything they stole. Indeed, the things they steal are often obscure curiosities of dubious monetary value."

Gibbs considered. "For example?"

"For example, five years ago they were implicated in the theft of a 'hand of glory' from a small history museum in Oregon."

"Hand of glory?"

"Yes, it is the preserved, severed hand of an executed man made into a candelabra. They were believed to have occult powers. In this case, it was the hand of an eighteenth century sailor who was hanged for mutiny by the captain of his ship, who was also his own brother."

"Harsh."

"Indeed. The theft followed two bizarre local drownings - one woman drowned in her shower - and reports of sightings of a ghost ship. Henriksen suspected the Winchesters of being responsible for the deaths, but he was never able to make a direct link between them and, in fact, his own evidence proves that they were two states away at the time of the first death."

Gibbs nodded. "The Winchesters told Tony that they didn't usually bother with ghosts _if they weren't hurting anybody_ and that, in order to 'deal with' a ghost, you break its ties to this 'plane' by salting and burning its remains."

"Ghosts aren't real," McGee objected.

"But the Winchesters clearly believe they are."

"So, obviously," Ziva said, "the Winchesters believed the drownings were related to the ghost ship, and were caused by the ghost of the hanged sailor, so to get rid of the ghost and stop the deaths, they stole his hand and salted and burned it."

"Makes sense to me."

"But you know, Boss," McGee said, "just to play Devil's advocate - uh, no pun intended - there's evidence the Winchesters are devil worshipers. The hand of glory was thought to have occult powers. Couldn't they have wanted it for some demon-summoning ritual or something?"

"Henriksen's 'devil worshipers' theory has never adequately fit the facts," Ziva objected. "This theory does."

"But if they're trying to save people," McGee argued, "why do they go around _killing_ them?"

"All right." Gibbs held up one hand to stop the spat before it could start. "We have two rival theories here. Go over the evidence. See what fits."

McGee and Ziva both settled down and settled back into their seats.

"Either way," McGee said, "the Winchesters are crazy. Either they're devil-worshiping psychopaths or they believe in ghosts."

"I do not think Abby would appreciate your attitude," Ziva warned him mildly. "She also believes in ghosts, and I, myself, do not disbelieve in them."

"Look, I'm not calling either of you crazy, and I suppose you have a right to believe whatever you want to believe," the tone of McGee's voice said that he doubted that but wasn't going to argue the point, "but I am a scientist and this is the 21st century and you can take it from me: Ghosts aren't real."

The lamp on his desk flickered and buzzed and his computer screen blinked and skittered ominously. He smacked his hand on the power strip and the electronics settled down.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Leroy Jethro Gibbs, carrying a CaffPow and followed by FBI agent Tobias Fornell, crossed the threshold into Abby's forensics lab and stopped to look around, not in the least surprised by what he saw.

Abby, at her computer, swiveled her chair and beamed at him.

"_This_ is the most _awesome_ case you've _ever_ brought me!"

Gibbs pointed one finger at the ceiling directly over his head. "You tell me that's not spray paint."

"Gibbs! It's part of our investigation!"

He kept his gaze on her, steady and stern. She sighed.

"It's liquid chalk. It will wash off."

"It better."

Fornell looked around at the arcane signs and symbols covering every available surface in the lab. He glanced up at the ceiling.

"That's the symbol the Winchesters drew on the ceiling of the Littlefield house, just inside the front door, isn't it? Don't tell me you've taken up devil worship, Miss Sciuto."

She blinked at him, eyes wide and innocent. "Devil worship? Now what do you see that could possibly make you think of devil worship, _Agent_ Fornell?"

"It's _not_ devil worship?"

"Not even remotely."

"Tell us what you've got, Abs," Gibbs requested.

"Okay, well, as you both know, the Winchesters tend to leave a trail of odd signs and sigils behind them, as well as burned graves, salt scattered around hotel rooms, things like that. Our esteemed colleagues at the FBI," she paused to give Fornell a withering glare, "looking at this, came to the conclusion that they were devil worshipers. But signs and symbols and sigils have specific meanings and not every mark that's unfamiliar to us is, by any means, satanic. Take, for example, the poor, misunderstood pentagram. Probably the most widely-associated with satanism of any symbol, the pentagram itself is actually an ancient, early-Christian protection symbol. It _is_ used by devil worshipers, but when it is it, like the cross, which is also used, is inverted. All pentagrams that can be directly attributed to one or the other of the Winchesters are either right-side-up, if drawn on a vertical surface, or properly aligned to the north if drawn on a horizontal surface.

"The other symbols that have been found are from a Hodge-podge - isn't that a great word? Hodge-lodge? - a Hodge-podge of cultures and religions. I'm talking, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Shinto, Celtic, Gaelic, Native American, _Norse_ . . . I haven't been able to identify all of them, but the ones I have are all wards or protection charms. For example, eight years ago the Winchesters are credited with saving three siblings from a man-eating bear in Colorado. These markings," she indicated a series of odd figures sketched across the side of Major Mass Spec, "were found carved into the rocks and trees around where they camped. They're Native American and they're meant to ward off a mythical creature called a 'wendigo'. It was believed to be a monster that had once been human, but became this fierce, supernatural predator after practicing cannibalism."

"And the thing over the door?" Gibbs asked.

"That's the 'Key of Solomon'. It's also known as a 'devil's trap'. It's kind of a like a satanic roach motel. Demons check in, but they don't check out. The salt lines across windows and doors are also meant for protection from the supernatural, and the whole 'salt and burn' thing with the bones? It's a purification ritual. Very ancient and found in a lot of cultures."

"Good work, Abs." Gibbs gave her her CaffPow. "Make sure you copy this information to Ducky and to Ziva and McGee." He kissed her on the temple. "When this case is over, all of this," he waved a finger around the room, "has to come down."

"All of it?" she asked plaintively.

Gibbs considered, then gave her a tiny smile. "Most of it."

Abby smiled a huge smile and slurped on her straw as the two agents turned, walked under the devil's trap and left the room.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"A shapeshifter," Gibbs said, voice flat and unimpressed.

Tony sighed. "Yeah."

"And you believe her?"

"That she was telling the truth as she understands it? Yeah, I do."

McGee, sitting at his desk and studying file folders, snorted softly. Tony ignored him.

"Not the first time we've investigated the impossible, Boss. Or a murder committed by a dead man."

Gibbs tipped his head in acknowledgment. "No it's not."

"In her original statement, Rebecca Warren said that Dean Winchester returned and attacked her. They fought and she was able to get the gun that he had tucked in his waistband. She shot him twice, point-blank, in the chest. Police took pictures of the crime scene and took her clothes into evidence, but they never really followed up on it. They just took her at her word. But if you look a little closer, the facts never fit."

"How so?"

"First, there were clear signs of a struggle, but Warren didn't have any new injuries except for a mild concussion. No marks on her hands or arms, no new bruises. How did a small, lightweight woman with no self-defense training manage to wrestle with a big bruiser like Winchester, knock over furniture, even break a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, and not get a scratch? I talked it over with Ducky on the plane. He said the autopsy done on Winchester - we need something else to call him, since he's clearly _not_ Dean Winchester - was cursory, more for form's sake than anything. _But_ it was clear from what was done that he was _not_ shot at point-blank range. Duckman estimates the shooter was between twelve and fifteen feet away, which would gibe with Rebecca's shapeshifter story. And if Winchester believed he was dealing with a supernatural monster, it would also account for the silver bullets in the gun."

"Yeah, Tony," McGee interjected, voice droll. "There's only one thing wrong with that theory. Monsters aren't real." He caught the look Gibbs and DiNozzo both shot him and amended his statement. "Or, at least, the monsters that are real are all also human. You're talking about something out of a horror movie here. C'mon!"

"A horror movie," Tony mused. "Yeah, but which one? 'Cause, personally, I'm thinking less Wes Craven and more Lon Chaney."

Gibbs twitched a small, understanding smile. "You have a theory?"

"Not . . . _yet_. But I definitely feel like there's more going on here than we understand. The Winchesters resurfaced in Baltimore, during a homicide investigation. I know the detective assigned to that case slightly. I'm meeting her later, going to try to get an inside look at what happened there."

"Let me know when you've got something."

Their discussion was interrupted by McGee suddenly pushing back from his desk and muttering furiously under his breath.

"Problems?" Gibbs asked.

"There's something wrong with my computer." McGee said. His voice turned plaintive, almost a whine. "Boss!"

Gibbs and Tony went over to look. McGee's monitor had popped open a text document that read _"mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober mcgee is a goober . . ."_

Tony grinned. "You should be more careful McSkepticpants. Spouting off all this 'ghosts aren't real, monsters aren't real' stuff. You know it's never wise to annoy ghosts . . . or vindictive forensic techs."


	6. Cloak and (Consecrated) Dagger

Author's Note: Thanks, again, everyone, for the reviews, alerts and favorites! I am getting closer to having my internet issues fixed, I think, and hopefully soon I will be able to thank you each personally for your support. I've just gotten a new smart phone that can be used as a mobile hot spot so if it gets reception at my house (I haven't been home yet, I JUST got it) and IF I ever figure out how to use it, I'm set. (Seriously, where's a 7-year-old to set up your new tech toys when you need them?)

Disclaimer: In the event that I am killed or captured, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of my actions.

Chapter 6: Cloak and (Consecrated) Dagger

At 10:18 in the morning Sam Winchester, dressed in a cheap suit and carrying a briefcase, arrived at the Navy Yard. He crossed the green in front of the NCIS building, entered through the main doors and presented himself to the guard on duty at the metal detector.

Dean really _hated_ this plan.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Two Hours Earlier:

"No."

"But, if I can get in and -"

"No."

"- talk to him and -"

"No."

"- find out what -"

"No."

"Dean! Will you at least just listen to me?"

_"NO!"_

"What's the worst that can happen? I get caught and Cas has to come angel me out."

"No, Sam. The worst that can happen is you get shot on sight."

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that. These aren't a bunch of trigger-happy cowboys. They're federal agents. I'm going to be unarmed. No threat. And they won't want me dead. Dead, I can't tell them where you are, and they want you even more than they want me."

"That's only natural. Everybody wants me more than they want you."

Sam rolled his eyes and ignored his brother's attempt to derail the argument. "Besides," he said, "I'll be carrying this." He flourished a square of white fabric.

"A handkerchief? Oh, well, that makes everything just hunky-dory. They'll all say to themselves, 'hey! He might have grown up to be a murdering psychopath, but at least we know he had a good upbringing. Because he was carrying a clean handkerchief when we _shot and killed him_!"

Sam pulled a face and unfurled the material to display the design he'd drawn on it with a fabric marker.

"What in the hell is that?"

"I found it in one of the books in the lair. The sigil and the chant to activate it. The effect lasts for twelve hours and it can be performed by a person once every lunar cycle."

"Wonderful. And this little arts and crafts project is supposed to impress me because . . . ?"

"It basically gives me the power to Jedi-mind-whammy people. 'These are not the Winchesters you're looking for'."

"So you just haul out your hankie and wave it at someone and they'll do whatever you want them to?"

"Basically, yeah."

"And you've already activated it?"

"Yes." Sam recognized his tactical error as soon as he had made it.

Dean smirked. "Works real good don't it?"

Sam sighed. "Okay, so it said in the book that it would have a limited effect on extraordinarily strong-willed people - which is a nice way of saying 'stubborn jackasses', by the way. And, since you're the world's most stubborn jackass, not to mention another Legacy, which probably gives you immunity anyway, naturally it's not going to affect you. That doesn't mean it doesn't work."

"And you think there aren't going to be any strong-willed people in a federal law enforcement agency?"

"I'll keep a low profile. If worse comes to worst, Cas can angel me out. Dean, listen to me. You want to protect these people, right?"

"Duh."

When he was worried and felt off-balance, Dean tended to deflect by being rude and immature. Sam knew him far too well to be put off by that.

"And we can do that a lot better if we have some idea of what the demons want with them. Now those three terrorists are still at NCIS headquarters, but they're not going to be there much longer before they're shipped out to a federal prison somewhere. They _invited_ those demons to use their bodies. If anyone has any idea what's going on, they do. So it only makes sense to try to talk to one of them. And the only way to do that, is for one of us to get into NCIS headquarters. I studied pre-law. I can pass myself off as a lawyer. At least let me try, Dean."

"And if you do get in there, how are you planning to get one of the _bad guys_ to open up to you? You got a sigil for that too?"

"Actually," Sam smiled, "yeah. I do."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

In the end, Dean finally agreed, although not before making Sam demonstrate the effect of his "Jedi-mind-whammy" sigil on a hapless convenience store clerk, who was left standing with a banana in his ear to keep the elephants away. _Some day,_ Sam thought, _I've got to point out to my brother that he's too old to watch Sesame Street_.

Also, before allowing Sam to make his attempt, Dean, the self-proclaimed computer illiterate Neanderthal hunter, had gone into NCIS' computer files, copied their facial recognition software and used the parameters to design a subtle disguise for Sam that would change the shape of his face just enough to keep him from pinging any alert they might have set on their security video.

"This is nuts," Sam complained, tucking small pads inside his cheeks. "We didn't do any of this before we went in and installed the wrought iron."

"Because we had helmets and safety goggles on. And we were together. We're at the top of their Most Wanted list, Sam, and you're just gonna waltz in there and go 'hey, how's it going? Anybody wanna get a burger?'"

Sam sighed, exasperated. "I'm not going to do anything like that."

"No, of course not. What was I thinking? _You'll_ go, 'anybody wanna get a nice green salad and a chai latte?'"

A younger Sam would have rolled his eyes and been insulted. This Sam surveyed his brother with compassion and read the worry behind his green eyes. "I know you hate to let me go alone, but you'll be with me the whole time, watching on the security video. We're on the top of their Most Wanted list. The last thing they'll expect is for me to walk right into their headquarters. I'll have the element of surprise on my side. I'll have the Jedi-mind-whammy sigil. And I'll have the best hunter who ever lived watching my back. It will be fine."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Next to real feds, Sam's suit was cheap and looked it. That was okay, though. It helped to paint the picture he wanted of a dedicated and idealistic young attorney willing to forego a large salary in order to ensure that the dregs of society were still provided with legal defense.

He proffered his fake ID and introduced himself as Winston Samuels, attorney at law. The guard admitted him without question and summoned Agent Dorneget to take him to his client. Dorneget left him in a secure interrogation room with the promise that he would bring one Hamid ibn Karzi to him shortly.

A meeting between a lawyer and his client was privileged and it would be illegal for anyone to record or eavesdrop on them. Still, Sam was cynical enough to activate the small EMF field generator he'd smuggled in, crippling any electronics being used in the room. Then he stood facing the one-way mirror, drew out his sigil and said, calmly, "you should turn off all recording devices and leave the room until we're finished". Then he sat down to wait.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"Dorneget!"

Special Agent Ned Dorneget jumped nervously upon finding himself addressed by Special Agent Gibbs. He spun to answer, subconsciously coming to attention.

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

"Who was that you just put in interrogation?"

"Problem, Boss?" DiNozzo inquired, coming up behind him.

"I don't know. Maybe. Guy just gave me a creepy feeling."

"Oh, uh, it's a lawyer for one of the terrorists," Dorneget said. "He's here to see Karzi."

"That would explain the creepy feeling."

"Did you want to talk to him, sir?"

Gibbs stared at him long enough to unnerve the younger agent, which, truthfully, didn't take long.

"_Want_ to talk to a lawyer? Are you out of your mind, Dorneget?"

Gibbs stomped off towards the bullpen, but DiNozzo lingered long enough to explain.

"Rule number 13," he said, "'never involve the lawyers'."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

When Dorneget returned with the prisoner, Sam was sitting quietly at the table doodling on a legal pad with multicolored ink pens. Without looking up he said, "this prisoner is dangerous. You should cuff him to the table for my protection."

"This prisoner is dangerous," Dorneget said. "I should cuff him to the table for your protection."

"Of course, Special Agent." Sam smiled to himself. "Do whatever you think is best."

Dorneget cuffed the prisoner to the table. "I'll be outside when you've finished. Just knock on the door."

Sam kept doodling, waited until the young agent left.

Karzi (whose birth name, Sam knew, was Lawrence Robert Smith), leaned forward eagerly as soon as the door closed. "Thank God you're here! Did the master send you? You've got to get me out of this place."

"You're thanking _God_?" Sam asked.

"A figure of speech. What do we have to do to escape?"

"Me? Walk out. You? Pretty much die." Sam finally looked up with a smile and Karzi gasped and pulled away.

"Sam Winchester! You're Sam Winchester! You and your brother exorcised our demons!"

"Yeah, Larry-Bob, we noticed that."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'd just like to ask you a few questions about your smelly little friends and what, exactly, they want with NCIS."

"You'll never get out of here!" Karzi said. He turned as far towards the door as his cuffs would permit and shouted. "HEY! SAM WINCHESTER! IT'S SAM WINCHESTER YOU MORONS! LET ME GO AND I'LL LET YOU HAVE HIM!"

"Well, that answers one of my questions." Sam gave the terrorist a thin smile. "I was wondering just how stupid you are. Do you really think they'd let you go if they caught me? Anyway, the question is moot." He tapped one of the designs he'd drawn on his legal pad. "I sound-proofed the room."

Karzi swallowed, visibly gathered himself and settled back in his chair.

"Do your worst. You can't make me talk. I'll never tell you anything."

"Actually, that's not true." Sam tapped another sigil. "I can make you answer any question I ask. There is a problem, though. See, it's nearly impossible to compel someone to tell the truth. Dean and I met a goddess who could do it once. Yeah. That turned out to be a bad idea, so it's probably a good thing that it's hard to accomplish. It is inconvenient, though. Fortunately for me, I have an alternative. While it may be hard to make someone tell the truth, it's very easy to compel someone to lie, especially if they're . . . how shall I put this . . . not the most honest person in the world to begin with."

"You're bluffing!"

"Am I? Let's see." Sam put his right hand down on the last design he'd drawn and held his left hand up, palm out, towards Karzi. There was another copy of the sigil drawn on his skin. "Lie!" he commanded.

Karzi pressed his lips together and held his silence. Sam considered him with a small smile.

"Hmm. Where to begin? Is your skin green?"

"Yes," Karzi said, unable to stop himself.

"Is your hair purple?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever worn women's underwear?"

"No," the terrorist shouted angrily. A look of horror came over his face and he bent down close to the table so he could clasp both hands over his mouth.

"Really?" Sam grinned. "Wow. Y'know, I should try this on Dean sometime. Or, on second thought, _no_. Did someone suggest to you that you should pimp your body out to a demon?"

"No," Karzi growled, eyes miserable.

"Was it the one you call master?"

"No."

"A member of your terrorist cell?"

"Yes."

"An outsider then."

"No."

"A demon?"

"No."

"Do you know the demon's name?"

"No."

"It wasn't, by any chance, Crowley, was it?"

"No!"

"Mmm. Very interesting. And do you know what Crowley wants with NCIS?"

"Yes."

"Do you know anything about the demons that possessed you and your accomplices?"

"No."

Sam sat back and sighed. "Okay, look, this yes/no stuff is only going to take us so far. I know you can't be enjoying this any more than I am. Give me something and we're done. I'll walk away and let you get back to what's left of your life."

Now Karzi had tears in his eyes. "Please," he begged. "You don't know what they'll do to me if they find out I've talked."

Sam's face softened. "Oh, I understand. You think that if you talk to me they'll drag you down to hell and torture you mercilessly for centuries, don't you?"

Too overcome to speak, Karzi shook his head no.

"You know," Sam said kindly, "there's really no need for you to worry about that."

Karzi looked up, hope in his eyes. "Really?"

"Really." Sam's voice turned dry. "You sold your body to a demon. They're pretty much going to drag you down to hell and torture you mercilessly for centuries no matter what you do."

"No! You're wrong! Crowley didn't offer me a place in the hierarchy!"

At that the younger Winchester actually laughed.

"He offered you 'a place in the hierarchy'? Seriously? And you bought it? Didn't it ever occur to you that the bottom of the hierarchy is still 'a place in the hierarchy'?"

Karzi looked like he was going to be sick. "Yes," he whispered.

Sam shook his head. "You just don't understand demons. Crowley is like the used car salesman who gives you an extra warranty on your muffler - and then the transmission falls off. He's like the politician who swears he never had an affair with another woman - and then you find out he's got a boyfriend on the side. Man, are you screwed! Listen, my brother and I are the only two people in the world who have been to hell and come back to tell about it. You give me whatever you've got and I'll give you a piece of advice."

Karzi screwed up his face in thought. Sam checked his watch.

"Clock's ticking."

The terrorist sighed and deflated. "There weren't three of them," he said. "I know their names. They weren't trying to gain points with Crowley. One of them hadn't been in hell for a few years. One hadn't been there for a couple decades and the third wasn't killed more than half a century ago. Two of them didn't hate Gibbs. The third one didn't know where the bodies were buried. That isn't all I know."

"Now, see?" Sam said. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Give me advice now," Karzi pleaded. "Tell me what I can do to save myself."

Sam gathered his papers and stood, preparing to leave. "Pray," he said. "Ask for forgiveness. Spend every minute of the rest of your life trying to make up for the evil you've done."

"And then I will be saved?"

"Probably not," Sam answered honestly. "But it's all you've got." He turned to the door, leaving the stricken terrorist gazing after him.

"Wait!" Karzi called out as Sam raised his hand to knock. "What about . . . ?" he motioned vaguely towards himself.

"Oh, the lie thing?"

Karzi shook his head no.

"That'll probably wear off. Eventually. A few months. A year or two. Maybe. I don't really know. I've never done that spell before." Laughing quietly to himself, Sam knocked on the door and Dorneget opened it almost immediately.

"You should show me out first, then come back and return Mr. Karzi to his cell," Sam suggested.

"If you've finished," Special Agent Dorneget said, "I'll show you out first and then come back and return Mr. Karzi to his cell. And we should go around the long way, to avoid Special Agent Gibbs."

Sam blinked. It was a good suggestion, but he hadn't made it. He wondered if Dorneget was reading his mind now.

"How can you represent that man?" the agent asked as they traversed a long hall en route to a secondary elevator. "Did you know we've tied him to a bombing in a marketplace in a small village in Helmland Province? It killed seventeen people. Some of them were children."

Sam did know that. It was why he hadn't felt at all guilty about baiting and insulting a doomed man. Still, Dorneget's question about the terrorist having representation was an honest one and it deserved an answer.

"It's not about him. It's about us. About not just talking about liberty and justice, but actually living our beliefs. The system has to work for everyone or it doesn't work for anyone. You just have to have faith that if we all do our best to live up to our principles, the innocent will go free, the guilty will be punished, and the victims will have justice." That hadn't been Sam's experience, actually (he thought of Dean, who gave so much and got so little) but he believed it was an ideal worth fighting for.

They came via a roundabout route to a side entrance.

"Will this be okay?" Dorneget asked.

"Yeah, it's great."

"So, um, will you be coming back again?"

Sam caught the note of hope in the young agent's voice and remembered that Dean had said Dorneget was gay. _Best to nip that in the bud_, he thought, _for Dorneget's sake_. "No," he said kindly, shaking his head. "Mr. Karzi has decided he doesn't want me to represent him. Which is just as well, actually. My girlfriend had the same reservations about me working for him that you do. But I do appreciate all your help." He offered the special agent his hand. "You should have more confidence in yourself," he said. "And have a nice day."

Dorneget wished him a nice day in return and then Sam was safely out the door and away, leaving the younger man with a renewed sense of self-worth and a pleasant outlook.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

"What the hell took you so long? You left the Navy Yard over an hour ago."

"Traffic," Sam said. "Plus, I stopped off and picked us up some lunch." He held up a couple of overflowing take-out bags and looked his brother in the eye. "You should have a nice, healthy salad for lunch today."

"I should have a nice, healthy salad for lunch today," Dean parroted. "_Not!_" He smacked his brother on the back of the head.

"Hey! What the hell?"

"Gibbs does it. It looked like fun. And there better be real food in one of those bags for me, Bitch."

Sam shoved a warm bag at him. "Disgusting, greasy cheeseburger and extra-large onion rings. Jerk." He rubbed his head. "Remind me to send Gibbs a 'thank you' note for teaching you yet another annoying habit."

His brother only grinned.

Sam had recorded his session with Karzi and he played the tape back for Dean while they ate.

"Littlefield was one of the demons," Dean said.

"You think?"

"He died over fifty years ago and he knew where the bodies were buried. The other two were probably people Gibbs took down. We should find out everybody he's killed in the line of duty. And the three of them were trying to get brownie points with Crowley. I'm thinking we've been set up."

Sam furrowed his brow, not quite following. "Set up how?"

"We were looking for Jenny Carver. Anybody who knows us knows we got a damn good chance of finding her. Crowley found out we were looking somehow and he dug up the guy who knew where she was. I wondered why demons would take DiNozzo out in the middle of nowhere and tie him up and then just leave him there. He was there for us to find."

"So you think, what? That Crowley wanted NCIS after us?"

"Had to. It's the only thing that makes any sense."

"But . . . why? If he wanted to inconvenience us by having the law chasing us again, all he had to do was tip off the FBI that we were still alive."

"And then the FBI would be after us. I think he wanted NCIS for a reason. I think he wanted Gibbs personally."

Sam considered the angles. "Gibbs isn't one of his. He walked right over the iron."

"Oh, no. Hell no. I was doing some poking around while you were off playing Perry Mason. Gibbs has one hell of a track record. The guy is good. Really good. And there's more. I dug a little deeper. Read between the lines, put two and two together. Gibbs was a Marine during Desert Storm. A Marine sniper, to be exact. While he was serving, his wife and their daughter were murdered by a Mexican drug lord. The wife had witnessed a murder he committed and he didn't want her to be able to testify. They knew he did it, but they didn't have enough evidence to arrest him for it, so he made it back to Mexico. Couple months later he was driving along a rural road when a sniper put a bullet in his head."

"You think Gibbs turned vigilante?"

Dean shook his head, face solemn and thoughtful. "I'm not judging him, Sam. Bastard killed his family. His little girl was only eight years old. If he put the guy in the ground, more power to him."

"Okay," Sam said slowly. "I'm not going to disagree with you. But how is this relevant?"

"Eight years ago a member of his team was shot in the head by a rogue spook named Ari Haswari. Few days later, Haswari wound up dead in Gibbs' basement. Year before that an agent named Chris Pacci was murdered. His killer was later shot and killed in an armed confrontation with Gibbs' team. Nothing shady about that one - lots of witnesses. It was a justified kill. Again, Gibbs was the shooter. His former partner was knifed to death by the Port To Port Killer. The murderer wound up going face-first out a third-floor window. Couldn't find out exactly what happened there. It was all secret ops, very hush hush. But Gibbs was definitely on hand.

"Before she became a naturalized American citizen and an actual NCIS agent, Ziva went back to Mossad and disappeared. She was presumed dead - her own father didn't even look for her. DiNozzo put together an op to track down the terrorist responsible for her death. He and McGee dangled themselves as bait and got taken captive to lead our guys in. When the dust settled, they walked out with Ziva and left the terrorist who took her laying in the dirt with a bullet from Gibbs' sniper rifle in his head. And when the NCIS building got bombed last year by that Harper Dearing guy? Gibbs was the one who took him out."

"Crowley wants Gibbs to kill us."

"That's how I make it."

"So all we have to do is stay off his radar." Sam thought it through, knowing that there was more to it than that, and that Dean was waiting for him to work it out for himself. "But that's not going to work, is it? Crowley intends to make sure he's motivated. He means to kill one or more of Gibbs' people and frame us for it."


	7. Eliminate the Impossible

Author's Note: Aaaand the saga of my Internet adventures continues. The smartphone turned out to be a dumbphone. It not only didn't work as a hotspot, it didn't even work as a phone. So I took it back and I am now (as of, like, ten minutes ago) the proud owner of a moble hotspot. We'll see if this works. So far, so good, but I haven't tried it at home yet. I only have about five minutes before I have to go to work, so I'm just going to post this now and I'll be back to try to catch up with my lovely reviewers tonight. Again, thanks for your patience and for all your support.

Disclaimer: It is March and March is St. Patrick's Day month. Singing Celtic songs is practically compulsory and it is not my fault if I have to make up some of the words.

Chapter 7: Eliminate the Impossible

"The range of mutations possible in the human race is almost infinite. Do you know, once, years ago in Papua, New Guinea, I came across a young man who had actually developed a full second set of teeth. Oh, but they were ghastly and misshapen things, mostly variations on canines and incisors. The truly odd thing, though, was that they retracted into his gums, yes, like a cat's claws."

"How did he eat with a mouth full of deformed teeth?"

"I don't know. I was unable to ask him. By the time I made his acquaintance, the gentleman was dead. Beheaded." Ducky smiled his wise, rueful smile. "The locals believed the poor man was a vampire, I'm afraid. Smell this, Jethro, and tell me what it reminds you of."

Gibbs leaned in and sniffed the petrie dish full of rusty brown goo while Tony, standing at his right hand, leaned back and pulled a disgusted face.

"Smells like caulk or sealant of some kind. Silicon?"

"Something silicon based, I'll warrant." Ducky capped the dish and set it aside. "I've sent a sample up to Abby. She's working on it now."

"Where'd you get it?

"Our young friend's skeleton was coated in it. And that's not all."

The two agents stepped closer to the autopsy table and Ducky moved around the the other side and folded back the sheet that covered the remains. To Tony's moderately educated eye the skeleton itself did not look remarkable. What _was_ remarkable was the mummified face that still rested, like a dried leather death mask, on the front of the skull. There were more scraps of leather adhering to the skeleton here and there, especially on the left arm, where skin still circled the lower arm bones, a tattered and rotted elbow-length glove. A scalp, the hair still attached, lay on Ducky's work table.

"Mummification?" Gibbs asked, tone skeptical. "Is that normal, Duck?"

"Oh, no. Not even remotely. Even under drought conditions, St. Louis is far too damp a location to allow for any part of a corpse to be naturally preserved in such a way. No, this is not human skin. At a guess, it's something similar to the synthetic skin they're developing now to treat burn patients. This scalp," he picked it up and held it out for them to examine, "is the same material. And the 'hair', although it appears absolutely life-like to the naked eye, is some form of silicon fiber. Again, Abby has samples of these and I will be eager to hear what she makes of them. I do have a working theory, though, if you're interested. In fact, I have two."

"Lay 'em on us," Gibbs said.

"Very well. Theory number one: This is a supernatural being whose soft organs, which, of course, I cannot now examine, included some form of specialized gland that allowed it to metabolize silicon and extrude it to produce a false skin, thus allowing it to take on any appearance it chose and to change that appearance simply by shedding one skin and assuming another."

Gibbs just stared, stern and unyielding. Ducky's lips turned up in a puckish grin.

"Oh, I admit, it's not very likely. But it did make for an interesting exercise in theoretical biology."

Gibbs gave in, tilted his head to the side and granted his old friend a small grin. "And your second theory would be . . . ?"

"That this is a disguise of such exactitude and sophistication that even in the course of an autopsy, the original M.E. did not suspect its existence."

"Now that one I'd go along with. You'll let me know if you find anything else."

"Of course. Oh, and Jethro, they've completed the search of the Littlefield farm without finding more bodies, thank heavens. I've finished identifying the five girls we have and I'm releasing the last set of remains for burial later today. Only four of them, sadly, had living family members to care for them. Annabelle VanBuren was an only child of two only children. There is a group of retired detectives, however, who work on cold cases pro-bono in their spare time. They'd been looking into Annabelle's disappearance and, in fact, had theorized that she was an early victim of Littlefield's. They were the ones who provided me with her dental records and they've undertaken to see to her funeral arrangements."

"What about Jenny Carver?" Tony asked. "Was she really in that hole the Winchesters dug?"

Ducky gave him a kind smile. "No, Tony. The young lady they disinterred was Margaret Holfelder. She was a classmate of Littlefield's, his youngest victim and probably his first."

"Oh." Tony tipped his head and shrugged a little, not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

"No, Jenny Carver was across the cellar, almost directly under your salt circle, in fact."

Tony reared back and looked down his nose at Ducky, mouth turned down in dismay. "I was sitting on Jenny Carver?"

"I do not believe she minded. Sadly, that was the least of the indignities to which that poor young woman was subjected."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"It's not funny, Abby, and I want you to stop now."

"It's _hilarious_, Timmy. And _I didn't do it_."

"You had to have done it. Tony and Ziva don't have the computer skills. And Gibbs _really_-" McGee broke off in mid-sentence, overcome by that tingly, creepy feeling that he was about to get himself in a lot of trouble.

"Gibbs really what, McGee?" Gibbs asked quietly from right behind him.

McGee swallowed hard and thought fast. "Gibbs, uh, _really_ would never do anything so unprofessional."

"Good answer." Gibbs stepped around into view. "Anything so unprofessional as what?"

"Someone broke into my computer and changed my user name to 'Goober'. They also changed all my passwords to 'goober', all my user names on all my online accounts to 'Goober', my pseudonym on my author's page to 'Thom E. McGoobercity', and my mmorpg character definition to 'goober'. AND they hacked into NCIS personnel files and changed my job description. To goober."

Abby was openly grinning and when Gibbs chuckled too McGee only glowered more fiercely. "And it _had_ to be Abby," he accused.

Gibbs looked to Abby questioningly.

She looked him in the eye. "It wasn't me, Gibbs."

Gibbs turned back to McGee, pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Abby. "She says it wasn't her, McGee."

"It _had_ to be. She's the only one with the computer skills to pull it off."

"Maybe it was a _ghost_, Timmy. Did you ever think about that?"

"There's no such thing as ghosts!"

"Prove it."

McGee snorted, exasperated. "You know I can't do that. It's logically impossible to prove a negative."

"Ha! See?"

"_You_ prove that there _is_ such a thing."

"There are _reams_ of anecdotal evidence for the existence of ghosts. Reputable witnesses - presidents and doctors and lawmen and teachers. Serious scientists have done careful studies and documented tons of anomalies that can't be explained through traditional means."

"Yeah, well, be that as it may, you still cannot produce a ghost in a laboratory under controlled conditions on demand. You cannot produce a psychic revelation on demand."

"You cannot produce a supernova in the laboratory either. Or a black hole. Or a hiccup. Are you saying there's no such thing as hiccups, _Agent_ McGee?"

"Am I gonna have to separate you two?" Gibbs asked mildly. "Go to neutral corners. Now!"

Abby and McGee stepped apart and stood, one on either side of Gibbs, each avoiding the other's gaze and both looking unhappy.

"Good. Now, who's got something for me?"

His two subordinates glanced resentfully at one another, then Abby picked up her remote control and clicked it at the wall screen. "The substance on the skeleton was definitely some kind of silicon-based material. I can't identify it. Nothing exists with that exact chemical composition. Whoever invented this didn't market it or even register it with the patent office."

"You know what was in it, can you re-create it?"

"No." Abby shook her head, definite. "Think of it like a loaf of bread. To make bread you have to activate the yeast, mix the ingredients in the right order, let it rise, punch it down and knead it and let it rise again a couple of times, shape it and bake it in the right location in an oven that's the right shape. You have to know how hot to get the oven and how long to bake it for. If I just have the remains of a piece of decayed bread I can analyze it and probably figure out most of the ingredients, maybe even all of them, and take a good guess at how they're proportioned. But that won't tell me any of the process that goes into making it.

"It's the same with this stuff." She wandered around the lab as she talked, fiddling with things, picking up a petrie dish full of the strange silicon substance and waving it at them, using her hands to illustrate her words. "I know, for the most part, what's in it, although it is always possible that some of the ingredients have decayed so badly they don't register, but I have no idea how you go about producing the finished product. I can make a guess at what it was like when it was first made, though, and if I'm right this is some scary stuff. I almost think we'd be better off if it _was_ some kind of supernatural monster."

"Scary how?"

"Imagine a substance that's thin and tough, yet soft and flexible. It's air- and water-permeable and transmits heat almost instantly. Now imagine that it can be molded to exacting standards. Are you familiar with 3-D printers? They're not common. They're expensive and clunky and the ones available on the market now are pretty much limited to using heavy PVC plastic. But the idea is that you send it the specifications for something and the machine produces it, whatever it is, in 3-D.

"If I'm right, a 3-D printer could be adapted to use this silicone material. You have two faces, the face of the person who's going to wear the disguise and the face of the person they want to pass as. Use any of a hundred computer graphics programs - most facial recognition software could be adapted, I'd think - and design a mask. The inside is molded to exactly fit the face of the person who's wearing it and the outside it molded to exactly match the face of the person they're impersonating. Put the mask on with surgical glue, cover it with synthetic skin tinted to match the person's skin coloring, and no one would be able to tell the two of you apart. Since the mask is air- and water-permeable you could wear it indefinitely and, because it would transfer your natural body heat, it would feel just like normal skin to the touch."

"How long would it take for someone to make and put on a disguise like this?" Gibbs asked.

Abby looked at him, dead serious now, all talk of ghosts and computer hacking forgotten. "Start to finish? Five minutes, maybe? All you'd need is a camera, a laptop, and a 3-D printer. It'd be like, remember back in the late '80s there was a second Mission: Impossible TV series? It only lasted a couple of years. Their master of disguise had a device he could use to make a mask of anyone. He just fed their picture into his computer and it spit out the mask. This would work pretty much just like that."

"This stuff was around the skeleton's arms, too," McGee pointed out. "Why disguise the arms?"

"Fingerprints?" Abby suggested. "Tattoos? Or hiding tattoos?"

"A spy's dream," Gibbs said grimly. "Or a terrorist's."

"But," McGee objected, "why would a spy or a terrorist draw attention to themself by torturing and killing random women?"

"Good question." Gibbs fixed his gaze on the younger agent. "Got a good answer?"

McGee blinked. "Who, me? Ah, no. Not yet, anyway."

"Okay. What do you have?"

"Well . . . I, um, think I know who 'Bobby' is. Or was, rather."

"Bobby?"

"Yeah. Remember the guy who helped Jenny Carver's family contact the Winchesters told them to ask for 'Bobby's boys'? I think I know who Bobby was."

"I'm listening."

"Okay, well, it's a pretty weird story, which kind of seems par for the course with this case. A couple of years ago a man calling himself 'Roy Bean' showed up at a murder scene in Dayton, Ohio, claiming to be an FBI agent. He had a fake ID and a business card with a phone number on it that was supposedly his field office. When the local sheriff called the number and asked to verify the guy's credentials, the man who answered asked to speak to Roy. The sheriff couldn't tell what was being said, but he could hear shouting over the phone. Roy went deathly pale and when the call ended he _ate_ his business card, _broke_ the phone, confessed to murder and asked for police protection." McGee paused and looked at the two of them.

"Y'waiting for a drumroll?" Gibbs prompted.

"He claimed that he and his partner, whom he refused to name, had murdered Dean and Sam Winchester, and that he needed protection because, and I quote, 'Dean was pissed'."

"That's understandable. I'd be pissed, too, if somebody murdered me. Anyone follow up on his story?"

"Well, he claimed the murder took place in a no-tell motel that had since gone out of business. One of the maids remembered finding a bloody room one morning, with bullet holes in the mattresses, but apparently that wasn't that unusual around there and, since there were no bodies, the owners decided not to involve the police. My best guess would be that Roy and his partner shot the Winchesters and left them for dead, but they survived.

"Anyway, with no way to substantiate his confession, Roy was released, but he kept trying to sneak back into jail so they finally got a judge to have him committed. He's still in an asylum, suffering from acute paranoia."

"And Bobby?"

"Using the sheriff's phone record, I was able to trace the number Roy called just before his confession. It belonged to a salvage yard owner in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, named Robert Steven Singer. Singer went off the grid last year after his house blew up. Fire marshall said it looked like a gas leak. A few months later he died in a hunting accident. According to South Dakota birth records, he was an only child, but the hospital where he died listed his next-of-kin as his nephews, Dean and Sam Singer."

"Good work, Tim. Contact the sheriff in Sioux Falls. See if he has any kind of a record on Singer. Find out if he knows anything about the Winchester brothers."

McGee left and Gibbs started to follow, but he was stopped by Abby's voice, little-girl-lost.

"I just want there to be more, Gibbs."

He turned back. "More what?" he asked gently.

"Just . . . more. I want there to be mysteries we can't solve, things we can't explain away. I want to be part of a bigger picture we can't see all of. I want there to be something waiting after we die. Hope and peace and justice for all the people who don't get it while they're alive."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"McGee says there is. He says that a scientist should only believe what you can prove in a lab."

"And is McGee always right?"

"Well . . . ."

He waited, raised one eyebrow.

". . . no."

"They call it 'belief' for a reason, Abs."

"But he is right that we don't live in the Dark Ages."

"No, we don't. In the Dark Ages you had to believe whatever the Church told you to. Or the king. Or, if you were a woman, your husband. But we live in the United States of America in the 21st century and you are _entitled_ to believe _whatever_ you believe."

"You believe that?"

"I more than believe that. I fought for that. You believe what you want to. You don't have to justify yourself to anyone."

"Not even the people you love?"

"Especially not them."

Her expression finally lightened and he gave her a wink and a small smile and started again for the door, but again she called him back.

"Gibbs! Wait! What do you believe?"

He crossed over to her, leaned in close and put his mouth right against her ear. "I believe you have a fresh CaffPow in your refrigerator."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Tell me about Dean Winchester."

Baltimore Police Detective - and there was a title that had been Tony's own once upon a time - Baltimore Police Detective Diana Ballard took a swig of coffee and shrugged uncomfortably. "We found him standing over a dead woman with blood on his hands. It sounds so convincing when you say it that way. The truth is, our case against him was never worth a damn."

"How so?"

"Well, we had his fingerprints at the murder scene. They were on both sides of the light switch just inside the door - the electricity was cut - but not on the breaker box."

"He came in, tried the lights. Flipped the switch up and down a couple of times when they didn't come on," Tony reasoned.

"I say 'blood on his hands', but actually, he just had blood on one hand. His right hand, where he was holding the victim's wrist."

"Checking for a pulse."

"No murder weapon and nowhere he could have disposed of one. He and his brother told the exact same story about what they were doing there. Not word for word, that would have been too easy, but the same story. It was a load of hooey, but we couldn't prove that. As I saw it, the only chance we had to make the charges stick was for Sam to roll on him. My partner, Pete, was hoping to get a conviction just on circumstance and the St. Louis murder charges. In retrospect, I understand why."

"He knew Sam wouldn't implicate his brother because he knew Dean was innocent. Pete was the killer."

She made a little face, sad, angry, resigned. "You've obviously read my report, so what are we doing here?"

Tony leaned back in his seat and gazed down at her, frowning slightly, radiating puzzlement and concern. She was a small woman with a tough demeanor and he had already decided that he was going to get from her exactly what she agreed to give him and not another word.

"I've read your report," he said. "There were a couple of things I just," he squinted into the distance and grimaced, searching for words, "just didn't follow."

"Oh?" She was cool, professional. Guarded.

Tony leaned his elbows on her desk, rested his chin on his folded hands and studied her, curious. "You realized that your partner was the murderer when you found the body of one," he glanced to the side, where his notes lay open, "Claire Becker, a small-time heroin dealer who'd disappeared eight months earlier."

"Pete and I worked narcotics before we moved to homicide. While we were there, a large quantity of heroin disappeared from the lock-up. Everybody knew it was an inside job, no one but a cop would have had access. But we'd never found out who did it. Obviously, whoever took it would have needed someone to deal it for them. Someone like Claire. When I found her body, her throat had been cut, just like the Giles'."

"And that told you it was Pete?"

"She was wearing a necklace that I knew he'd had custom made. He'd given me one just like it."

"Ah." Tony nodded, tipped his head to the side and put a hand on his chin, stretching the kinks out. "You broke Rule 12."

"I'm sorry? Rule 12?"

"Gibbs - my boss - has these rules. There are, oh, I don't know, about fifty of them? Rule 12 is 'never date a co-worker'."

"I see. Well, for me that's Rule Number One now."

"No, Pete broke Rule number one." She gave him a questioning glance. "Never screw over your partner. You found Claire's body tied up in a canvas bag, hidden behind a brick wall in an abandoned store. You were in the middle of a murder investigation, chasing an escaped suspect." Tony sat back and gave her a questioning grin. "What made you decide to break down a wall?"

She sighed and shook her head. "A hunch? There was this, this odd phrase that appeared at both the Giles' murder scenes. 'Danashulps'. It was on his fax machine and her computer, that one word, over and over and over again. The Winchesters were both obsessed with it. You know Dean claimed to believe that the murders were committed by a vengeful spirit? He told me that ghosts try to communicate, but it's hard and sometimes the words get garbled."

"Like 'redrum'?" Tony asked.

"Yeah," she smiled at him a little, "that was actually the example he used. Anyway, he got his lawyer to pass Sam a note that said 'Hilts, it's a street. Ashland. McQueen.' Then Dean announced that he was willing to film a confession. Everybody got all excited and gathered around in the observation room to watch, but of course he didn't confess to anything. It was just a distraction so Sam could escape."

"Just like his big brother told him to. Hilts. McQueen." He smiled wistfully. "I like this guy. He quotes movies."

"So I went looking for Sam on Ashland street. Ashland didn't quite fit, though. There were three extra letters - SUP. I saw a sign in the window of an abandoned building. It was Ashland Supplies, but only the S-U-P from supplies remained. I went inside and the light shining in the window cast the shadows of the words on the wall. I noticed that the mortar there didn't match the rest of the wall and on a hunch I broke out some of the bricks. As soon as I had two or three bricks out I could tell there was something in there. So I kept going and that's how I found Claire."

"Wow. And this 'danashulps' that had shown up at the crime scenes, did anyone ever come up with a non-supernatural explanation for that?"

"The police psychologist thought Pete was responsible. Repressed guilt and a subconscious desire to be caught."

"Makes as much sense as anything, I guess." Tony stood and looked around Diana's office. Like Rebecca Warren, Diana Ballard seemed to have developed a taste for reading about the occult. "You mentioned Dean's bogus confession and I've seen it referenced a time or two. Was there ever really a recording and if so, what became of that?"

"Yeah, there was a recording. Don't you have it?"

"No, which is odd because the FBI has apparently saved everything else that could possibly be related to the Winchesters. Including a kitchen sink."

"Hmm." She took a CD from a drawer, stuck it in her computer and hit a few buttons. The machine buzzed and whirred for a few seconds and when it stopped she took the CD out and handed it over. "Well, for what it's worth, there it is."

"Thank you." He reached for the door, then hesitated. "Are you ever going to tell me the whole truth about what happened on that murder investigation?"

"Hell no."

Tony laughed, leaned down close to her desk and spoke softly. "I think you did the right thing when you let them walk away. Some day soon I hope to be able to prove that."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Of course I'll hold. I don't mind holding at all. I love to hold." Ziva tucked the phone against her neck and hissed at the bullpen, "I hate being put on hold!"

Tony, just returned from his interview with Diana Ballard, dropped his backpack next to his desk and dropped into his chair. "Problems, my ninja?"

"I am following up on reports of grave desecration. I've been looking at all the different instances of bodies being dug up and burned, both the ones in my files that are almost certainly the Winchesters and the ones in McGee's files that may or may not be. One thing is certain - the Winchesters are not the only ones going around the country trying to lay vengeful spirits. I am coming to believe that there is an entire community, a sort of shadowy sub-culture of people who not only believe in the supernatural, but believe it is their responsibility to protect the rest of us from the dangers it presents. They tend to be paranoid and highly secretive, but occasionally stories about them slip out."

"How so?"

"I found a reference - a rather amusing reference, actually - to the Winchesters by an online ghost hunting group who call themselves 'Ghost Facers'. Apparently, they despise the Winchesters. Called them 'assholes' and were quite vehement about their dislike, but they still passed on a tip from them about using salt to protect oneself from a ghost. Look at this."

His computer pinged and he opened the video file she'd sent him. A couple of dorky-looking guys were sitting at a table covered with odd electronic paraphernalia. One of them was talking. ". . . and then Dean told me there was salt in his duffel bag and I should make a circle of it and get inside it." He shifted uncomfortably. "I knew he didn't mean get in the duffel bag."

"Ha!" Tony crowed. "He thought Dean was telling him to get in the duffel bag."

Ziva grinned at him across the walkway, then suddenly shifted her attention back to the phone. "No! No! I'm here. Of course I'm still here."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Across the bullpen, McGee was having telephone difficulties of his own. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am. I wasn't trying to be sexist. It's just that, I knew a Jody in college and he was a man, and when I was a kid I used to watch that TV show, Family Affair, and there were these twins named Jody and Buffy and that Jody was a boy. No, ma'am. I didn't call you up just to babble at you."

He caught a glimpse of Tony grinning at him, made a sour face and concentrated his attention on his phone call.

"My name is Special Agent McGee and I'm with NCIS. I'm calling from Washington, D.C."

"Oh. That was fast."

". . . ma'am?"

"Listen, I understand the boy's been at sea a long time and I'm not gonna press charges. You can have him back as soon as he sobers up and scrubs the spray paint off that statue. But he's gonna _have to_ scrub the paint off the statue. I don't care how sad it is that the poor stone pony doesn't have any 'junk', that's a family park and I've already had three parents call me because their little kids wanted to know what the big green thing was."

". . . Ma'am? I'm sorry. What are you talking about?"

"You said you're NCIS. That's Navy, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, I've got one of your midshipmen in my drunk tank. Isn't that what you're calling about?"

"Uh, no, ma'am. Though I'm sure his C.O. would be very interested to hear about it."

"Okay, so then, why _are_ you calling me?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me anything about one of your local residents, a salvage yard owner named Robert Steven Singer?"

She paused for a long moment and when she spoke again her voice was deeper, with an undertone of sorrow. "Bobby Singer is dead."

"Yes, ma'am. I know that. You knew Mr. Singer?"

"He ran a salvage yard. Drove a tow truck. Yeah, I knew him."

"And what about his nephews? Do you know them too?"

"I never met any of Bobby's relatives. I know he talked about his boys a lot. He was real proud of 'em. Loved 'em. Worried about 'em. He was like a second father to them."

"And doesn't it strike you as strange that you never met them?"

"Why should I have met them?"

"Well, it is a small town, right? Everybody pretty much knows everyone?"

She snorted, exasperation coming at him in waves. "Son, it might not seem like much to you, but Sioux Falls is the biggest city in South Dakota. There's over 150,000 people living here. And it's part of a larger metropolitan area that has a population of over 230,000."

"Oh. Right. I'm sorry. But, well, you knew Bobby Singer, right?"

"He owned a salvage yard. He drove a tow truck. I knew him." Her voice softened. "Bobby was a drunken, cranky, cantankerous old coot. And a good man. He'd never hesitate to go out of his way to help people."

"Help people how?"

"Oh, I don't know. Killing zombies, mostly."

McGee took the phone away from his ear and stared at it.

"What?"

"He was a _tow truck driver_. How do you _ think_ he helped people?"

"Oh. Right. I just -"

"Does NCIS have a height requirement?"

"Um . . . yes?"

"And is it a higher number than their IQ requirement?"

McGee steeled his reserve and determined to take control of the conversation. "Ma'am, I don't think -"

"Obviously. Agent McGee, it is spring in South Dakota. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Well . . . no."

"It means mud. Lots and lots and lots of mud. Right now I have got three deputies with their 4-wheel-drive trucks stuck in three different parts of the county. I've got an officer responding to a domestic dispute with no answer on the call-back and if he gets into trouble it will be _hours_ before I can get backup to him. I have a school bus full of seven-year-olds bogged down in the middle of nowhere and I am on my way, in my own personal Jeep, to an isolated farm house where a woman who's home alone with a four-year-old has gone into hard labor. Do you know why I'm going there myself? Because the ambulance full of EMTs who actually _know_ how to deliver a baby is sunk up to its axles six miles away. And you're calling me up from Washington D.C. to ask me stupid questions?"

Timothy McGee knew when he was beaten and gave in gracefully. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I understand that I've caught you at a bad time. Please, can I just ask you one last question before I go?"

He didn't hear her growl but he could practically feel it rumbling over the phone line at him. "Shoot," she said.

"Do you know if Bobby Singer ever called anyone an 'idjit'?"

Again there was a silence. When she spoke again her voice was deep with feeling.

"_God_, I wish Bobby was alive so you could ask him that yourself."

There was a _click_ and the line went dead. McGee sighed and hung up.

"Problem, Probie?"

He looked up to find Tony watching him, half-smiling but not in a tormenting way. Tony could be an overbearing jerk when he wanted to, but he could also be kind and considerate and supportive, and he always, _always_ had his teammates' backs. So McGee let the older agent see his sad face.

"I feel like I just got yelled at by my mom."

Tony's eyes went distant. "I don't really remember what that's like," he mused.

"Good." McGee offered him the phone. "Next time, you can call Sheriff Mills."

Tony grinned and McGee felt better. "You know, though. There's got to be more going on than she's letting me see. I mean, why would the sheriff be on a first name basis with some tow truck driver?"

"Oh!" Tony nodded, understanding. "You've never worked local law enforcement, McFed."

"No. What's that got to do with anything?"

"When you're a local LEO, the one type of call you work, more than all the other calls combined, is traffic accidents. So, you wind up getting to know the people you see at traffic accidents." Tony ticked them off on his fingers. "Habitual drunk drivers, firefighters, first responders, sleazy lawyers and . . . ?"

"Tow truck drivers," McGee finished.

"Tow truck drivers."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense. It's too bad in a way, though." He smiled to himself. "Zombies would have been kind of cool. But, just don't tell Abby I said that."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Boss? I think you'll find this interesting."

Gibbs paused in the middle of the bullpen and Tony rose and came around his desk to stand next to him. He palmed the remote and gestured at the screen.

"While he was being held in Baltimore, Dean Winchester offered to film a confession. Really it was just a distraction to allow his brother time to escape. Dean had sent him a note with the attorney. It was addressed to 'Hilts' and signed 'McQueen'." Tony looked around at his teammates. "You get it? Hilts was Steve McQueen's character in The Great Escape."

"And?" Gibbs prompted.

Tony hit _play_ and, on screen, Dean Winchester came to life.

"Hi. I'm Dean Winchester. I'm an Aquarius . . . ."

When the short recording ended Tony cleared it off the screen and looked to Gibbs. "That looks to me like a man who's telling the truth. He doesn't expect to be believed, but he's telling the truth."

"He might have _thought_ he was telling the truth," McGee interjected, "bu he was wrong. Anthony and Karen Giles weren't killed by some vengeful spirit."

"No, they were killed by the sleazebag dirty cop behind the camera. The point is that Dean Winchester genuinely believed they were killed by a vengeful spirit."

"And that's important?" Gibbs was asking, not doubting.

"I think it might be, yeah. I think it might be really important."

"Your theory?"

"Not quite there yet. I want to go over the information from the bank robbery again and I need to talk to Abby."

"You heard what she and Ducky found?"

"The super-secret-spy disguise? Yeah. You know, there had to be at least two?"

"Dean Winchester and Rebecca Warren? Yeah, at least two."

"I'm thinking more. Maybe a lot more."

"Let me know when you're ready to share."

"Will do."

"What do you want, Dorneget?" Gibbs asked without turning around.

Dorneget, lurking behind him, cringed. "Um, Special Agent Gibbs? There's a lady here who says you want to see her."

Gibbs turned then. "_Do_ I want to see her?"

"Uh, I'm not sure."

"Well, who is she?"

"She's from Missouri . . . ."

"I'm not _from_ Missouri." The imposing black woman he'd left waiting by the elevator came over on her own. "I _am_ Missouri. Missouri Mosely. I'm a psychic. You want to ask me about John Winchester's boys."

Gibbs looked her in the eye, shook his head a little. "I don't believe in psychics," he said.

She snorted, completely unimpressed. "Is that what your gut tells you?"

They stared at one another. Slowly, Gibbs smiled.

"Agent Dorneget, show Ms. Mosely to a conference room. I'll be along in a few minutes," he promised her.

"I know." She turned away and pierced Tony, just re-seating himself, with a knowing gaze. "You're Agent DiNozzo. I have a message for you from Caitlin Todd."

"That's impossible," McGee said.

Missouri Mosely waved one hand at him impatiently. "You hush, McGee. When I want your opinion, I'll give it to you." She turned back to Tony. "Kate says, 'for God's sake, Tony, man up and do it already! Haven't you learned anything?'"

Tony swallowed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes you do."

Ziva was laughing silently at her teammates, face alight, eyes dancing, until the older woman stopped next to her and pointed a finger at her.

"When we're done here, you walk me out," she commanded.

Ziva swallowed apprehensively and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Then Ms. Mosely took Dorneget's proffered arm and swept out, leaving the bullpen silent and shell-shocked in her wake.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"This is Doctor Mallard, our M.E.. He's also a clinical psychologist. He's been working on a psychological profile of the Winchester brothers. I'd like for him to sit in on this interview."

"Of course." Missouri Mosely gave Ducky a warm smile, which he returned in kind.

"How long have you known Dean and Sam Winchester?" Gibbs began.

"I knew their daddy real well." She wagged a finger in Ducky's direction. "Not in any improper way, mind you. He was a friend. A good friend and I loved him dearly."

"You say 'was'," Ducky noted. "Their father is dead, then?"

"Six years now. He died in the aftermath of a car accident." She leaned towards Gibbs as if sharing a confidence. "I'd tell you the details, but you'd never believe me."

"Did it involve ghosts?" he asked dryly.

"Demons. Possessed trucker."

"I'll make a note of that. You knew Dean and Sam when they were kids then?"

"I met them a time or two. I didn't really know them. John was . . . contradictory. Loved those boys fierce and treated 'em cold. Proud as could be behind their backs, but I believe he hardly ever had a kind word for either of them. Dean raised Sam more than his father ever did, shielded him and took care of him."

"And who took care of Dean?" Ducky asked.

"No one, near as I could tell. Bobby Singer tried, when John'd let him. They fought about it a lot. Dean loved Bobby like a second dad, but he'd never go against John's will."

"How about as adults? Do you see them very often?"

"I've only seen them once since they grew up. I was hopin' they'd come to me, let me help them. But I made an error in judgment and they've never come back."

"An error in judgment?" Gibbs mocked. "You?"

"I'm psychic, not omniscient. You like to hand out headslaps. You looking to find out how well you can take them?"

"Yeah, that would be a _bad_ idea."

"Then just you mind your manners, _Le_roy."

"What sort of an error in judgment?" Ducky asked.

Missouri sighed heavily and leaned her arms on the table between them. "They came to me about seven years ago, that last year that John was alive and just a few months after Sam's little girlfriend died. How can I explain this to you?" She thought for a long moment. "Their momma died when Dean was four. Their daddy raised them like soldiers more than sons, but Dean especially. 'Look after Sam. Do what I tell you. Don't show any weakness. Look after Sam.' And Dean, he put his whole heart and soul into it.

"When Dean was, I don't know, ten or twelve, he left Sam alone in a motel room for a little while while he went across the parking lot to play video games. John caught him. It was months before he acted like he trusted him again. At fifteen, Sam ran away while John was on a hunting trip. Left on Dean's watch. Took them a couple of weeks to find him. At eighteen, Sam got a full ride to Stanford. John didn't want him to go. He was terrified of what could happen to his boys if they were out of his sight. They had a big fight - John and Sam always were cut from the same cloth. Sam left anyway, cut all his ties with both of them. Never wrote, never called, wouldn't pick up the phone if Dean called. Hung up on him if he did get through.

"Then John started taking off. Sending Dean off on hunts alone, going off without him. One day he left and didn't come back. Didn't call. Didn't answer his phone. That's when Dean went and got Sam from Stanford.

"They tracked me down when they came to Lawrence looking into a poltergeist in their old home. For Sam, I think, it was more a curiosity. A chance to see a place he'd heard about all his life but didn't remember. But it was _hard_ for Dean."

"It would be," Ducky said.

"He was like a knight in armor, one who's hurt so bad that the armor's the only thing holding him up. Only Dean's armor is the way he acts - cocky and carefree and smart-mouthed and hard." She gave Gibbs a wise look. "You know what I'm talking about."

"You're not suggesting that I do that?"

She snorted. "Not you, no. You just put on that hard-ass Marine exterior to hide the hard-ass Marine on the inside. You know, you scare the hell out of that poor boy Dorneget."

Gibbs grinned. "You exorcise demons your way and I'll exorcise demons mine.

"I'm still waiting to hear about your error in judgment," Ducky reminded her.

She sighed again and grew sad. "I wanted to help those boys. Wanted to help both of them, take care of them, mother them. God, do they need mothering. Sam, you can do that with. He grew up knowing that he was loved and he takes to shows of affection like a puppy to a puddle. But Dean . . . ."

"Dean shies away," Ducky supplied. "He's afraid to trust, afraid to let his guard down, afraid he's getting something only so it can be taken away again."

"If I'd forced my way past his defenses, he'd have shattered like glass. So I treated him like the person he pretends to be. Guess I overdid it. I know this may come as a shock to you, but some people find me a little bit abrasive. Now the boy thinks I don't like him."

"He knows you're psychic. He thinks you can see past his defenses and see him for the failure he believes himself to be. You really think very highly of them, don't you?"

"I've followed their doings. Followed them more closely than they know. They're not murderers, no matter what kind of evidence you think you have to the contrary. Sam is an overgrown Boy Scout. He always wants to help people, be kind, do the right thing. His judgment is often questionable, but his heart is _always_ in the right place."

"And Dean?"

"Loud, lewd, crude, rude, lascivious, larcenous, profane, promiscuous and immoderate." She put both hands flat on the table and levered herself to stand before them. "If there is a saint walking God's green earth right now, his name is Dean Winchester."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

When Ziva and Missouri Mosely stepped into the elevator it was already occupied by a thirty-something blonde data analyst. They rode in silence for several seconds before Missouri spoke up.

"I'd go with the blue," she said, looking at the blonde.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The blue. The red makes you look like a slut. Although, considering what you're planning on doing while you're wearing it, the red might be more appropriate at that."

The door pinged open on the second floor and the data analyst fled. When the door closed again, Ziva giggled in spite of herself. Missouri joined in, then turned to her.

"He's not gonna hurt you, Sugar. He's not _ever_ going to hurt you." She studied the Israeli. "But then, you already know that, don't you? That's not what you're worried about. You're worried that you'll hurt him. No. You're worried that you'll hurt him _again_."

"And will I?" Ziva asked, emotion naked in her eyes.

Missouri lay a gentle hand on the younger woman's cheek. "Oh, sweetheart. That's something only you can decide."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

Gibbs and Ducky returned to the bullpen just ahead of Ziva. "Hell of a lady," Gibbs was saying.

"Yes, and you enjoyed sparring with her," Ducky accused.

"What can I say?"

Tony was waiting for them, pacing the limited floorspace in the bullpen and looking nervous.

"Problem, DiNozzo?"

"Problem, no. Just," he chewed his lower lip for a second. "If you're interested, Boss, I think I'm ready to share my theory now."


	8. The Big Bang Theory

Author's note: Well, my high-speed WI-fi connection is turning out not to be as entirely high-speed as I'd like it to be, especially on overcast days like today. Sometimes when I click on a link it loads immediately and sometimes it takes it a few minutes. I discovered this when I started trying to reply to reviews and it quickly became obvious that if I reply individually to each lovely person who has left me a review, it's going to be a very long process and it's going to have to come out of my writing time. Since I figured you'd all rather have another chapter than a PM, I'm going to take the quicker option and thank everyone at once, here. I do hope you each know how very much I appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you think of my story!

My thanks to: dnachemlia, .angel, The OMG Cat, deathnoteno1fan-codegeasslover, mouse8, lilykep, 81, celestial-vail, Endgame65, psychee, Evergreen, NCISxSPM4TW, Lawsy89, DLillith21, aloha94, Vampirecat1191, DellaVie, BranchSuper, magamom2, Niweeg, The Archivist613, DinaLori, Katerbell, FinalndNative, emebalia, silmarlfan1, Jouaint, SkyHighFan, Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands, Artemis's best Huntress, Tango Dancer,psylocke23, remerkaba, M, MissiYoung, won't be the Victim, TygerC, TanyaUchiha, Dorothy4, The Blasphemous Contessa, The Slightly Demented, HerDrakness, antra, Victoria Wolf, Zephyria-Lunae, AliceRoseWillson, Squirl, 123me321you, Shining Sunny, Garrus, Firadraco, angelcat70, peppymint, Colleen, ParkerAlexis88, essebes, The Sweetest Words, JinxedCobra, pottyandweezlebe89, kingdommast, guerrero, g, winka, ToffifeeKat, usukfan555, Can'tStopSmilingAllDay, sg2009, Ophite68, Allyanna, ash, Kittenseal, Samtastic, Midnight Muse, Shamangrrl, Hinn-Raven, me, Fialisen, Valkier, Spike847, mwjen, liliaeth, BondWoman007, ndmzero, smlg29, amby-air, ashwingsmokefeather, busigt-81, kiryn, ManicTater, Cosmic Egg, elidear, JapaneseAnimeFreak16, zabani-chan, Windstorm124, and WinJennster

Also, a special thanks to DellaVie, for pointing out that I got the name of McQueen's character in The Great Escape wrong. When I re-watched The Usual Suspects I thought the note said "Hilty" but it should have been "Hilts". I also misunderstood the name of the business where Claire's body was hidden. I thought it was "Ashland Supermarket" but it should have been "Ashland Supplies". Thanks to SkyHighFan for calling that to my attention. I've fixed both those errors in the last chapter. I hope that didn't prompt ffnet to send out spurious alerts! Sorry if it did.

Finally, in my first chapter author's note I said that eventually we would come to a point where POV started going back and forth between the NCIS characters and the Supernatural characters in the same chapters. Well, here we are. Thanks again, everyone, for sticking with me thus far. I hope you continue to enjoy the ride.

Disclaimer: I have no control over my cats.

Chapter 8: The Big Bang Theory

"I'm ready to share my theory now," Tony said.

"We're all ears," Gibbs replied laconically.

Tony glanced around, taking stock of his audience. Ziva had come in just behind Gibbs and Ducky and McGee was still at his desk, surrounded by file folders.

"It's pretty complicated. I'd like to get Abby up here first, to answer any technical questions as they arise."

McGee looked up. "Uh, Abby's not here. She went to lunch," he checked his watch, "almost an hour ago. She should be back pretty soon, though."

"Call her up," Gibbs said. "Find out when to expect her."

McGee reached over to his desk phone, hit the button to put it on speaker and used speed dial to call Abby.

She answered on the first ring, voice tense.

"McGee! I'm in a vacant lot off Business Loop 12 near the Industrial Parkway. You guys need to get here. Bring the crime scene van. And a bomb squad."

"Bomb squad?" Gibbs crossed over to McGee's desk and leaned into the phone, voice urgent. "Abby, what -?"

Before he could finish his sentence there was a sudden commotion at the other end of the line, a sound of running, a muffled shout, a gasp from Abby and then a massive explosion.

The phone line went dead.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

Half an hour earlier:

The restaurant was called Nutzen Boltz and it was owned and operated by members of a now-defunct Death Metal band Abby had known since they first started trying to make a go of their music in D.C.-area clubs and leather bars. She hadn't been surprised when the band went under - it's hard for even vast amounts of enthusiasm to make up for a lack of talent. Fortunately, they were better cooks than they had been musicians. Nutzen Boltz was a vegan cafe that sourced all their produce locally and was heavy on environmental themes. It was located in an old warehouse in a run-down industrial park that was slowly being re-claimed by artists, writers, crafters, and musicians. Abby tried to make their weekly poetry luncheon at least once a month.

She was on her way back to NCIS headquarters, traveling along a wide thoroughfare that had once seen heavy traffic but was now nearly deserted, when she spotted the Chevy Impala on her tail.

Later, when those few passers-by who witnessed the incident were questioned, every last one of them would swear it was a black, 1967 Chevy Impala and that Dean Winchester was driving and Sam Winchester was on the passenger side. Abby, though, knew cars better than most mechanics. She also knew exactly what the Winchesters looked like. And she had a better view than anyone of the Impala's occupants, as it roared up alongside her on a straight stretch. The passenger gave her an evil smile and pointed a gun at her head.

She hit the brake and flinched away as a gunshot rang out, but no bullet entered her car. Instead, the gun flew out of the gunman's hand and he recoiled in shock. As Abby's roadster fell back a second Impala passed her, hot on the first one's tail. _This_ was a '67. Sam Winchester was behind the wheel while Dean leaned out the passenger window, face grim, handgun trained on the car ahead of them.

Wind from the slipstream ruffled through his short, blond hair and the sleeve of his flannel over-shirt rippled and snapped like a flag caught in a gale, but his gaze was steady. Abby had only a glimpse of him as she braked and Sam accelerated, but in that instant she was struck by a sudden sense of security. There was a resoluteness of purpose about him, a sureness of action that reminded her of Gibbs.

As the Winchesters pulled up next to the imposters, Abby grabbed her cell and dialed 911. She put it to her ear, but there was nothing - no ring, no dial tone, no reassuring voice of the emergency operator. A quick glance showed that she had no signal, which was crazy. Someone must have been blocking cell phone reception. Dropping it on the seat beside her, she followed after the speeding black cars.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Dean put the safety on his gun and dropped it on the floorboard. He opened the glove box and grabbed a can of spray paint.

"See if you can get up next to him."

"What are you going to do?" Sam asked, giving the spray paint a doubtful glance.

"Just get up next to him and watch."

Obediently, Sam increased his speed, pulling up until Dean's window was even with the other car's trunk.

"Don't let him hit my baby," Dean said. With a sudden movement, he pulled his feet up into the seat and launched himself head-first out the window and onto the trunk of the other Impala.

Sam swore vehemently and swerved away, dropping back and hoping Cas was available and that he had the mojo to bring Dean back from the dead.

Twice. Because after the first time, Sam was damn well going to kill him again!

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Pacing the two Impalas at speeds she didn't dare look at, Abby swallowed the lump in her throat that she was sure was her heart and grabbed her cell again. Again she dialed 911, but her phone was still dead. Frustrated, she started just hitting re-dial. She was hoping they were going to need an ambulance. She was pretty sure they were going to need a body bag instead.

The phony Dean Winchester, driving the lead Impala, was swerving and fishtailing wildly, trying to dislodge the real Dean Winchester from his precarious perch on the car's trunk. Dean (the real one) had gotten a purchase on the chrome across the top of the back window with his left hand and braced his feet in the corners of the window. He was waving his right hand in circles over the roof of the car. Abby caught the glint of sunlight on silver and realized he was wielding a can of spray paint.

_Oh, my God! He's insane!_

He tossed the can away and got a better grip on the window. She could see his mouth moving, but she was too far away to read his lips.

The road twisted and curved, winding down to go under a tangle of overpasses and railroad bridges. In the alternating patches of deep shadow and bright sunlight, the black cars seemed to flicker like images on an old film reel.

They came out from under the last overpass and the road stretched straight, level and empty ahead of them. Dean let loose with his left hand and waved his brother forward. Sam obediently pulled up next to the trunk of the lead Impala and Dean again threw himself from one car to the other. He rolled across the hood of his own vehicle and Sam, driving masterfully, compensated for his momentum by pulling to the left and speeding up. Dean, his slide towards the pavement on the car's driver's side halted, rolled back up and came to rest against the windshield.

Only then did Sam brake, and gently, pulling the car off the road into a vacant lot and rolling to a stop. Abby followed them, letting the other Impala with the imposters disappear into the distance.

She jumped out of her car at the same time Sam got out of theirs, tucked her still-useless phone into her pocket and ran over to them. Up until this point she had been too busy dealing with events as they happened to think about it. Now shock and adrenaline were setting in, leaving her shaking and rattled. A scientist first, always, she fell back on the one thing she knew to be true in all this.

"That was impossible," she said, distracting Sam, who was reaching for his brother with a mixture of concern and murder in his eyes.

Dean, curled against the windshield, rolled over and stretched out spread-eagled across the hood. His face and upper body were speckled with light blue where the wind had tossed the spray paint back at him and he was laughing giddily.

Sam blinked. "What was impossible?"

"That shot. He was in a moving vehicle. You were in a moving vehicle. Your brother shot the gun out of his hand! Do you have any idea what the odds against a shot like that are? It's impossible!"

Dean shrugged and grinned engagingly and now he reminded her of Tony. She remembered, out of nowhere, Ducky remarking how very like Tony, Gibbs at been when they first met.

"What can I say? Doing the impossible is my specialty."

"It is," Sam agreed. "Also doing the unwise, the inadvisable, and the suicidally insane! So help me _God_, Dean! If you ever jump out of a moving vehicle on me again, I'm going to run over you just on principle!"

"See, Bitch? That's why I never let you drive. Do you have any idea what that'd do to the suspension?"

Sam looked like he was considering throwing a punch. Abby held up a hand to forestall their bickering.

"Excuse me, but I'm freaking out here, so can we please just concentrate on _me_ right now?"

Instantly she had their full attention. Dean pulled himself up to sit on the hood and studied her, gaze serious and concerned. Sam's stare was unnerving in its intensity.

"Those guys just tried to kill me. What just happened? What is going on here?"

The brothers glanced at one another. Sam spoke.

"Dean and I have . . . enemies."

"Enemies who don't like us very much," Dean supplied.

"Yeah, that's kind of the working definition of 'enemy'," she snarked.

Dean smiled at her, a genuine smile, and his green eyes warmed.

"These enemies," Sam elaborated, "they want us dead. But they haven't been able to manage that themselves, so now, we think, they're trying to get your boss to come after us." He raised his eyebrows, questioning. "Gibbs?"

She frowned, still not following. "Gibbs is already after you."

"Right. And what's he planning to do if he catches us?"

"_When_ he catches you? Arrest you, of course."

"And what if he thought we'd murdered you?" Dean asked, husky voice soft and solemn.

"Oh . . . ."

"You're all right now," Dean told her. He jumped off the hood of his car and reached out a hand to steady her as Sam came around to join them. "Are y'a'right? D'ya need to sit down?"

"No. No, I'm . . . I just." She felt like she'd been hit in the stomach. "They could go after anybody. All my friends. Gibbs' dad."

"In Pennsylvania, right? Stillwater? We've got somebody keeping an eye on him. There's been no sign of demonic activity up there."

She stared at him. "Demonic activity."

"Um, yeah." He gave her a weak smile, one that said, _I know you don't believe me, but, seriously. Look at this face!_

"And just what sort of signs signal demonic activity anyway?"

It was Sam who answered. "Freak electrical storms, power fluctuations and outages, animal mutilations, plagues of insects . . . ."

"Oh . . . _kay_. And my friends?"

"They're all still at the Navy Yard. They should be safe for now."

"You won't mind if I call just to check on them?"

"Knock yourself out," Dean told her.

She pulled her phone out and growled at the screen. "I still don't have a signal."

"What?" Sam pulled a face. "We're just a few miles from the nation's capitol. You should have a cell phone signal." He checked his own phone. "What the hell? I'm dark too."

Dean pulled his phone out and glanced at it and his face darkened. "This is not good."

"Something's gotta be blocking the signal," Abby said.

"You said you 'still' don't have a signal," Dean reminded her. "When did you discover you didn't have any service?"

"Right after you shot that guy's gun out of his hand. I tried to call 911 but I couldn't get through." She thought about it, ferocious intellect starting to work again after a trying interlude. "Which doesn't make any sense. If there was something alongside the road somewhere set up to block cell phone reception, we should have driven out of range of it by now. Unless it was traveling along with us."

Dean held out one hand to her, like a man trying to coax a skittish animal to come to him. "Abby? Do you mind if I call you Abby? Would you please just step over here with Sam for a minute while I check out your car?"

"Her car?" Sam's voice was skeptical. "They couldn't have gotten to her car, Dean. We warded all their vehicles."

"Warded them against demons," Dean said. "What's to stop Crowley from contracting his business out to humans?"

"Who's Crowley," Abby asked, going to stand beside Sam while Dean began prowling around her beloved, '31 Ford hot rod coupe.

"King of Hell," Sam said absently, attention on his brother. "Dean, what are you thinking?"

"I thought Lucifer was the king of hell?" Abby persisted.

"I dunno," Dean said. "Plan B, maybe?"

"Not following you," Sam said to Dean and then, to Abby, "Lucifer's locked in a cage in the depths of hell. Most of the senior demons went down trying to bring about the apocalypse. There was a power vacuum."

"Crowley's the scum that rose to the top of the cesspool," Dean said. "And he knows we've been keeping an eye on them, Sam."

"How would he know that?"

Dean gave his brother a meaningful look. "Bluetooth. Holy water. In nomine deus?"

"Right. Of course."

"So he'd have to guess that there was at least a chance we'd throw a wrench into his little hit here."

"And he'd have a plan B."

"Bingo." He transferred his attention to Abby. "You've washed your car recently."

"Yeah, last night. Washed it and waxed it. Why? What do you have?"

"Fingerprints."

Abby, flanked by Sam, approached her car. Four fingerprints marred the vehicle's gleaming finish, fanned out just ahead of the driver's side rear wheel, like someone lying on the ground had reached up and grabbed it.

Dean lowered himself, like a man doing pushups, and peered under the car. His face hardened.

"Sam, get Abby in the Impala and get out of here."

"Why?" Sam demanded.

"There's a bomb under here. I'm going to see if I can disarm it."

"You're going to _what?_ Hell no! You're not a bomb tech, Dean. You come with us."

"There's a _bomb_ under my _car?_" Abby repeated, stunned.

"I got this, Sam." Dean rolled over to his back and edged under the little hot rod. He gave his brother a cocky smirk. "I'm good with my hands."

"Your brother's right, Dean," Abby said. "Come out from under there. We can go somewhere we have cell reception and call my people. The Navy will send a bomb squad. Professionals. With protective gear."

"No time. It's on a timer."

"How long?" Sam asked. He was taller than Abby, a rarity even among men, and presented a solid bulk at her shoulder. She could feel the tension and frustration rolling off him in waves.

"Just under five minutes. Seriously, Sam. Get back and stop distracting me."

Sam took Abby's arm and drew her around behind the Impala, muttering under his breath the whole time. "I swear to _God_, my brother is suicidal! I should have him committed."

"Does he do this sort of thing often?"

"_All _the time. Some day the suspense is going to be too much for me and I'm going to just kill him myself to get it over with."

"Dean?" Abby called. "Dean, please. Just come out from under the car."

"Just stay back," he ordered. Then, more softly, "don't you worry, sweetheart. I'm not going to let anything happen to a classy lady like you."

Abby's lips thinned in disapproval. "That's really sweet," she said drily, "but I'm far enough away to be safe."

Sam cleared his throat and scuffed the gravel lot with the worn toe of his sneaker. When Abby looked over, he was staring at the ground. He raised just his eyes to her face.

"Um, I think he's talking to your car," he said apologetically.

"Oh."

Chewing on her lower lip, she stood next to Sam and watched the side of her car where Dean had disappeared. Sam was so tense his body was practically vibrating with it, like an over-tightened guitar string. He was staring at his watch.

"How long?" she asked.

"Two minutes since he crawled under there."

Across the lot, Dean's left hand reappeared and grasped the car body almost on top of the fingerprints he'd found earlier. Slowly he eased himself out from under the bright red roadster. His right hand he held flat beside him, a roughly rectangular device of boxes and wires resting on his palm. He rose with the lithe grace of a dancer as Abby studied the bomb he held.

"Neon green electrical tape," she said aloud. "Three inches wide by three inches deep by six inches long. The explosive will be C4. There'll be a double charge, each on a separate timer. The first is designed to rupture the gas tank, the second to set off the fumes, to enhance the explosion."

"You can tell all that from here?" Sam asked.

"I recognize the work. I know who made this bomb, or at least I know his alias and his history. We've been chasing this bastard for years."

"The signal jammer is wired in here, too," Dean said, carrying the bomb in a wide arc away from them.

"You've disarmed it."

"The signal jammer, yeah. The bomb, no."

Abby's cell phone rang. She snatched it up and glanced at the readout as she answered it. "McGee! I'm in a vacant lot off Business Loop 12 near the Industrial Parkway. You guys need to get here. Bring the crime scene van. And a bomb squad."

"Bomb squad?" It was Gibbs' voice that answered her. "Abby, what -?"

Dean swore suddenly and started running, heading for the scrubby waste ground at the end of the lot. "Geddown! It's gonna blow!"

Abby gasped as Sam pushed her down and covered her with his own body.

The bomb went off.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Tony, McGee, and Ziva got the crime scene van and headed for the bomb site as fast as they could go. Ducky and Jimmy followed, praying not to be needed, and the Navy assured them there was a bomb disposal unit already dispatched.

Gibbs took his own personal Dodge Charger and beat them all by a good seven minutes.

He found Abby alone in a vacant lot, sitting on the trunk of her car, cradling a sawed-off double barrel shotgun. He slammed his car to a stop, shut off the engine and got out and stalked over to her without even bothering to close the car door behind him.

She looked up and just silently held out her arms and he wrapped her in a fierce hug.

"Are you all right? Do you need a hospital? Are you hurt at all? Ducky's on his way."

"I'm okay," she mumbled into his ear. "I'm all right. I just really need a hug."

Another vehicle pulled into the lot behind them and Tobias Fornell got out and hurried over. "I heard it on the scanner. I was nearby." He stopped and turned to look at the far end of the lot and Gibbs and Abby followed his gaze. The gavel was cratered, the grass and brush at the end charred. "What the hell happened?"

"Well," Abby said, "first, two guys in a black, 1968 Chevy Impala tried to kill me. Then, there was a bomb under my car."

Fornell made a face. "Still think those were 'protective' sigils?" he asked sardonically.

"If Abby meant that the Winchesters tried to kill her, she'd have said that the Winchesters tried to kill her," Gibbs said. "Keep up, Tobias." He turned back to Abby. "So what _did_ happen?"

By the time she got to the point where the bomb went off, the rest of their team had arrived, followed closely by the bomb squad.

"I got a look at the device before it exploded. I'll have to go over it in the lab to be sure, but it looked like the work of the Loup Vert."

"The green wolf?" Jimmy Palmer asked.

"Freelance munitions expert and arms dealer, specializing in explosives," Tony explained. "That's his code name. We don't know his true identity."

"I dropped my phone and broke it when the bomb went off. I can probably put it back together again when my hands stop shaking."

McGee was hovering protectively close to Abby. "So what happened after the bomb went off?" he asked.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

The bomb went off.

The ground shook and gravel rained down around them. When the world stilled Sam rose hesitantly and Abby rolled over and sat up, looking fearfully towards the source of the explosion.

Dean lay in a heap on the ground. Even from a distance Abby could see his body shaking. Then he sat up and she realized he was laughing. His nose was bleeding and the backs of his forearms were raw with road rash, but he rose to his feet and held up both fists triumphantly.

"I can fly!" he shouted. "I'm _Superman_!"

"I'm gonna kill him," Sam muttered.

"How many times a day do you say that?" Abby asked, curious.

"I don't know. I stopped keeping track a long time ago." He turned his attention to his brother. "Dean, come on. We need to go now. Abby was on the phone to her people. They're going to have cops here any minute."

Dean staggered over to them. Sam said nothing but tracked his progress like a hawk.

"This Crowley person," Abby said. "His first name wouldn't happen to be Angus would it?"

The two brothers stilled and looked at one another.

"Fergus," Dean said. "When he was alive. Fergus McLeod. But that was a hell of a long time ago."

"He was Scots," Sam offered. "If he wanted an alias, he might go for something like Angus. Why do you ask?"

Abby shrugged. "Nothing really. Just a hunch."

"You gonna be all right until your friends get here?" Dean asked Abby.

"I should . . . yeah . . . I should be fine, yeah."

"Your car's warded. You'll be safe from demons if you're inside it. Or even sitting on it."

"Should I ask how or when you managed that?"

"Probably not." He popped open the Impala's trunk and took out a sawed-off double barrel shotgun. "You're the head of forensics, which includes ballistics, so I'm guessing you know how to handle one of these?"

She nodded and he handed her the gun.

"What's to stop me from pointing this at you and holding you until Gibbs gets here?"

Sam snarled under his breath and Abby remembered Tony's account of how protective the younger brother had been. Dean just grinned.

"Well, you're loaded for ghosts right now. If you shoot me with it, it'll hurt like a son of a bitch, but it won't take me down." He went around and got behind the wheel of the Impala.

"Dean, you're hurt. You should let me drive."

"I'm not letting you drive. You threated to mess up her suspension."

"No, I threatened to run over you. As long as you stay in the car, you've got nothing to worry about."

"Just get in the car, Bitch."

Sam growled and gave Abby a complex look she couldn't entirely decipher. She returned it with a bright, hopeful smile.

"I didn't _actually_ point the gun at him," she pointed out. "I just asked him why I shouldn't."

He rolled his eyes and got in the car. Dean drove around so that his window was next to her and offered her a pair of shotgun shells.

"One's silver. The other's consecrated iron. Between the two of them, they'll take down almost anything. Anything comes at you, give it both barrels."

She took the shells. His palm was rough and callused, two of his fingers crooked from being broken and poorly set.

"Right. Got it. Both barrels. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. And, by the way," he waited until she met his eyes and gave her a killer grin. "I really like your car."

She blushed and ducked her head, then looked up and gave him a reluctant but sincere smile in return. "Thanks. I really like your car too," she admitted.

His eyes warmed and his smile widened into something that made her toes curl and the tips of her ears get hot. He winked and tossed her a mock salute and then they were gone.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"So what kind of ammunition do you use to shoot a ghost?" McGee asked drily.

Abby picked up one of the shells she'd taken out of the shotgun when she loaded the silver and iron rounds. She prised the cap off and dumped the contents out into her hand.

"Rock salt, apparently."

Gibbs took the gun from her, broke it open and peered down the barrels. "Yeah, I'd say they shoot that a lot. These barrels are scarred all to hell. Not gonna have much accuracy over any distance."

"Don't fire until you see the whites of their sheets," Tony offered.

Fornell was standing off to one side, talking on his cell. He came over now.

"Cops found your phony Winchesters."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

Fornell nodded towards the highway, indicating the direction they'd disappeared. "This straight stretch runs for almost two miles and then the road makes a sharp curve to the right. Your gunmen missed the curve and slammed into a tree doing about ninety."

"They dead?"

"Oh, yeah."

"On our way," Ducky said. He nodded to Jimmy Palmer and the two of them headed for the M.E. van.

"McGee," Gibbs said, "you take Abby back to headquarters. Take the bomb fragments with you. She can start working on them if she feels up to it. We'll be along after we process the car accident."

"Right, Boss," McGee said. "And what do you want me to do?"

Gibbs gave him a look that said he shouldn't have to ask a question like that. "I want you to try to find the _real_ Winchesters."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

It wasn't until the next morning that they met in the bullpen again to go over the Winchester case. Abby and the M.E.'s came up to join them. Fornell arrived, invited by Gibbs, partly because he understood that his old friend was still interested in the case and partly to show off the fact that _his_ people weren't being made to look like 'a buncha baboons'. Even Leon Vance came down for an update on their progress.

"We've finished the autopsies on the Winchester imposters - or, should I say, the latest round of Winchester imposters? One slightly odd detail there. All the injuries that they each sustained in the car crash were post-mortem. They died, both of them, of broken necks."

"Could Dean Winchester have done that somehow while he was on top of their car?" Gibbs asked Abby.

She snorted. "Not unless he was able to reach through solid metal."

"It wasn't done manually," Ducky said. "There was no bruising. My best guess would be that they didn't realize the road turned. They were looking behind them to see if they were being followed and drove full-speed into that tree. The G-force killed them."

"Do we know who they were?"

"We do," McGee answered. "Lance Devereaux and Martin Goodhouse. Both ex-military, both dishonorably discharged, both working as freelance mercenaries. Devereaux's last known location was Istanbul and Goodhouse was involved in a bar fight in Chile ten days ago."

"They were picked out specifically for their resemblance to the Winchester brothers. Whoever's after those two has deep pockets and a web of connections in the international terrorist community."

"But," McGee protested, "if the Winchesters really aren't serial killers, then they're just petty criminals. Penniless drifters who wander around the country hunting ghosts. Why would terrorists be after them?"

Gibbs wandered up to stand in front of him. "Good questions, McGee. Got a good answer . . ."

McGee opened his mouth to stammer out an apologetic no, but his boss was turning away, addressing his question to another.

". . . DiNozzo?"

Tony was standing off to one side, staring at the Winchesters' mug shots on the plasma with a distant expression in his eyes. He pulled a face, worried his upper lip with his bottom teeth for a minute, then turned resolutely to face his fellow agents.

"Maybe, Boss. It's not complete. There are pieces missing and it doesn't answer everything. But I think, yeah. I think maybe I do."

Author's Note part 2: Next chapter we'll get to Tony's theory for real. ;)


	9. Conspiracy Theory

Author's note: Sorry guys! I didn't really mean to pull a bait-and-switch on anyone. There was a lot of talking in chapter 7 and there's going to be a lot of talking in this chapter, so I figured I should throw some action in the middle. I didn't realize so many people were so anxious to hear Tony's theory. Here it is for real now and, as always, thanks so much for all the reviews, favorites, follows and death threats. ;)

Disclaimer: _ I did not order this freaking snow!_

Chapter 9: Conspiracy Theory

"What's the one thing a terrorist wants more than anything?" Tony asked.

"Destruction of the United States and our American way of life," McGee said promptly.

"Think less end result, more process."

"Access," Ziva supplied. "A clean entry onto U.S. soil. An unimpeachable cover."

Tony pointed both forefingers at her. "Bingo! Or, as our friend Dean Winchester might say, 'Yahtzee'! And what better cover than to take the identity of a natural-born American citizen?"

"Spies have been doing that for years," Fornell pointed out. "Relying on a natural resemblance, or makeup, or even plastic surgery."

"And now, one group - and I hope to God it really is only one group - have found a simpler alternative. Abby, Ducky, you wanna go over your findings again for anyone who's not up to speed?"

"The killer in St. Louis was wearing a disguise so subtle and so effective that the M.E. there didn't even suspect its existence during autopsy," Ducky said. "Based on my findings and on residue found in the casket, we believe it was comprised of a specialized, silicon-based under layer topped with synthetic skin tinted to match, in this case, Dean Winchester's coloring."

"The silicon-based under layer doesn't currently exist in any chemical database," Abby added. "This is an unknown, unregistered formula. There is a certain amount of speculation here, but I believe in its original form it was a lightweight, durable material that could be molded, using a 3-D printer, to form a perfectly fitting mask that would pass even the most sophisticated facial recognition software. Making and putting on a disguise with this method would take, probably, between five and ten minutes."

"So, you're a super-secret spy organization," Tony said, "and you have this brand new, super-duper, super-secret method for disguising yourself as, well, pretty much anyone. What's the first thing you want to do with it?"

"Test it." Gibbs' voice was certain. Tony was fairly sure his boss had already reached the same conclusions that he had. He was just letting Tony be the one to spell it out.

"The St. Louis attacks were a test?" McGee asked.

"Probably not the first tests," Tony said. "First they would have gone more low-key. Can you pass yourself off as someone to his neighbors? His co-workers? His buddies at the bar? St. Louis upped the ante. Can you convince someone's wife or lover that you're that person, even when you're acting out of character? Torturing them? Can you convince the police? What about the FBI?"

"They passed those tests," Vance said, voice grim. "Passed them all."

"They did," Tony agreed. "But there was one more test they weren't counting on and couldn't possibly have prepared for." He indicated the plasma and the two mug shots there. "The brothers Winchester, who believe in monsters."

"They not only believe in monsters," Ziva said with a slow smile, "they believe it is their duty to protect the rest of us by _killing_ monsters."

Tony gave her a warm smile before turning back to the group at large. "Dean Winchester was born in Lawrence, Kansas, January 24, 1979. Sam was born four years later, May 2, 1983. When Sam was six months old their mother died in a fire that started with the electrical wiring in the ceiling of Sam's nursery. Dean was the one who carried Sam out of the fire and he took responsibility for his brother's welfare from that point on. Their father, having tried and failed to save his wife, became convinced that the fire was started by a demon. He spent the rest of his life trying to track that demon down."

"He was a Vietnam vet," Fornell said. "A Marine. We always figured there was some undiagnosed PTSD there. And he raised his sons like soldiers. Especially Dean."

"They are soldiers," Tony countered, leaning against his own desk. "And priests."

"Priests?" That got a raised eyebrow from Gibbs.

Tony shrugged. "High priests of the Church of Weird, I'll grant you. But a church just the same. It's a kind of religion, and I'll bet you any court in the country would agree if it came down to a question of the First Amendment. They're not a couple of lunatics who exist in isolation, pursuing some private delusion of fighting ghosts and monsters. We've always assumed John Winchester took his boys and dropped _out_ of society after his wife's death. In fact, he dropped _into_ a society. Zee?"

As all eyes turned to her, Ziva bobbed her head and spread her hands. "They call themselves 'Hunters'. They are mostly loners, many of them live off the grid, and they are highly secretive and tend towards paranoia. It is not easy to track them down, but once you know what to look for, you can find traces of them. There are thousands in the United States alone, and I've found evidence of their existence in every country I've searched so far. And they are not new. I've traced them back a hundred and sixty years, and I believe they have existed for at _least_ a millennium. They hoard ancient texts and artifacts and trade intel on how to take down different types of supernatural menaces."

"More than just ghosts?" McGee asked, a touch sarcastically.

"Mmm. Much more. I've located information - Hunters call it 'lore' - on how to take down a stunning variety of evil supernatural creatures. Devils, monsters, shadow creatures, evil spirits, even rogue pagan gods. 'Perform this ritual.' 'Protect the dwelling with wards.' 'Find and burn the hex bags.' 'Nail the goblin's shadow to the earth with an iron knife and wait for it to wither with the sunrise.'"

"How about curses?" Tony asked. "Do you think, when we catch the Winchesters, they can help Tiny Tim lift the 'Goober Curse' on his computer?"

Ziva smiled. "Actually, Tony, from what I've read you cannot break a curse. All you can do is get out of its way."

"So our unknown terrorists tested their new disguise process." Vance stepped in to drag the conversation back on track. "And it passed every test they'd planned. But then they met the Winchesters."

"The Winchesters grew up training to hunt monsters." Tony turned serious once more. "When a law officer hears that someone has been seen in two places at once, we tend to think 'bad alibi' or 'bad witness' or 'mistaken identity'. The Winchesters though, went looking for a creature out of legend that could change its appearance. They found one - a shapeshifter - and then they went hunting for it. The terrorists tried to take them out of the picture by framing Dean for the assault on Becca Warren. Their plan backfired. When Dean saw another person with his face, it only reinforced his belief that he was hunting something inhuman. He killed one of their operatives and the whole thing put them on his radar."

"_One of_ their operatives?" McGee asked.

"Becca Warren also saw someone wearing her face." It was Gibbs who answered. "Even a disguise this sophisticated couldn't have allowed the same person to impersonate a small, slim female and a six-foot-tall, muscular young man. There were at least two, probably several more."

"There would have to have been an entire operation behind them," Abby said. "Just to develop the silicon derivative and design the process for creating a disguise would have required a team of scientists with a sophisticated lab and plenty of funding. And they'd have to have a steady supply of the silicon, too. If they'd contracted that out to a commercial lab, there'd be a record of it. Maybe not a public record, but a record that I could access just the same."

"And intel," Ziva added. "When they were ready to use the disguise for real, they would have needed a complex operation to gather intelligence on the people they intended to replace. You wouldn't just grab a stranger off the street for an important mission. You'd pick your target carefully - someone with a minimum of social contacts and either no spouse or lover or one you could also replace. And you'd want someone with access, probably to the American military-industrial complex. An orphaned, only child would be ideal. A soldier, maybe, in the midst of a transfer? Even then, you'd need to know everything about them in order to prepare for any questions that arose."

"Well," Tony said, "we know what they were doing for funding. Robbing banks."

"Milwaukee?" Fornell asked.

"A string of robberies, all inside jobs committed by people acting completely out of character. All the robbers immediately killed themselves and none of the money was ever found. That poor bastard of a security guard even figured it out, though he thought the robber was some kind of science fiction 'Mandroid'."

"And then the Winchesters showed up and threw a wrench in the works," Vance said.

"They killed another one of their operatives," Tony pointed out. "Maybe the one who had impersonated Becca Warren. The one body that was found, besides the bank guard, was a woman who was identical to another of the hostages. She never was identified. Whaddya wanna bet that, if Ducky autopsied her body, he'd find her skeleton covered in silicon goo?"

"And the spree killings last year?" McGee asked. "Do you think that was the terrorists, too?"

"Had to be," Tony said. "Nothing else fits. The Winchesters - the _real_ Winchesters - are not murderers. Just the opposite, in fact. Their whole lives have been about protecting people."

"Dean saved a young boy from drowning in a lake in Oregon," Ziva said. "Sam saved a young girl from drowning in a swimming pool in Connecticut. They saved three siblings from a rogue bear in Colorado. They called it a 'windigo', but they saved them just the same, and at the risk of their lives."

"Don't forget the Bender case," Gibbs said quietly. "That may be the most telling of all. Sam was kidnapped and held captive by the Benders. When Dean helped a law officer track them down, he was also captured and, if the girl's testimony is to be believed, tortured by them. When they got loose, they could have killed the whole family. It might even have been justified. Instead, they left them in the hands of the law."

"I thought one of the Benders was killed?" Ducky asked.

"By the LEO. Not by the Winchesters."

"Dr. Mallard," Vance said, "you've been working up a psychological profile of the Winchesters. What's your take on all this?"

"Oh, I agree entirely with Tony. Yes, the only way the collection of facts surrounding them makes sense, is if the murders were committed by completely different people."

"So, these hypothetical terrorists of yours," Fornell said, "just to be clear here, these hypothetical terrorists put a couple of guys in Winchester suits and sent them out on a killing spree to frame the real Winchesters because they were putting a crimp in their style?"

"More than a crimp, Tobias," Gibbs said. "The Winchesters were the only ones who knew they existed, and they'd obviously figured out how to track them. They were the only obstacle preventing them from carrying out their plans."

"Yeah, I get it," Fornell said. "It just seems extreme to me. You'd think they'd have tried killing them a couple more times first, is all."

"They did!" McGee said, with the voice of someone who has just experienced an epiphany.

Tony cocked his head in the younger agent's direction and shot him a questioning glance. "McGoober?"

"They did try to trap them," he said, digging through the files on his desk. He found the one he wanted and held it up with a flourish.

"Canonsburg, Pennsylvania. Second week in October, 2008. There was a series of bizarre murders at an Oktoberfest. Eyewitnesses claimed the murders were committed by Count Dracula and the Wolfman. The third murder victim was a museum guard apparently killed by someone who crawled out of an Egyptian-style sarcophagus. An Egyptian-style sarcophagus that had been purchased from a theatrical supply shop in Philadelphia and that contained a bucket of dry ice to create fog."

"Monsters to lure in the monster hunters," Tony said approvingly. "What happened?"

"A man in a Dracula costume kidnapped a waitress from one of the biergartens and a man claiming to be an FBI agent, though the FBI hadn't sent anyone to investigate. The waitress shot Dracula in self-defense. With silver bullets."

"I've got one too," Ziva sang out triumphantly. They turned to find her at her own desk, brandishing a file folder of her own. "Canton, Ohio. October of 2009. First, there was the extremely odd death of a man named Cal Hopkins, who had just bought what he believed to be James Dean's Porsche Spyder. He appeared to have been in a high-speed car crash - in his own garage. His best friend left him alive in the garage and went to get a video camera. He heard what sounded like a crash and returned, camera running, to find Hopkins dead. The car was not damaged."

"Well, the Winchesters do seem attracted to weird deaths, but -"

"There's more. Shortly afterward, a collector of Lincoln memorabilia was murdered. His housekeeper described the killer . . . as Abraham Lincoln. Then, two girls reported that their friend had been kidnapped by _Paris Hilton_. Needless to say, Ms. Hilton had an ironclad alibi. The murders were never solved."

"Oh! I looked at that case," Abby said. "In context, Cal Hopkins' death makes sense."

"Sense how, Abs?" Gibbs asked.

"Well, at first it's just impossible. A guy dies in a car crash in a stationary vehicle inside a garage? But our hypothetical terrorists could have pulled it off. First, they replace Hopkins with a double, then they kill the real one in a staged car crash, then, when the friend leaves the garage, they switch out the living double for the dead body of the real one."

"What about the Winchesters who died in the helicopter explosion in Monument, Colorado?" Fornell asked. "Were they imposters too?"

"Well, the real ones aren't dead," Gibbs pointed out, "so I'd say, yeah."

"And when none of their efforts to get rid of the Winchesters worked, our terrorists decided to let the law do their dirty work for them. Hence last year's spree killings," Tony reasoned. "Again they failed and again it was their own operatives who wound up going down. So now they're trying it again, but with NCIS as their weapon of choice."

"But, these Winchester look-a-likes, they weren't wearing any elaborate disguise, were they?" Fornell asked.

"No," Ducky said. "I checked, believe me."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," Tony admitted. "That's one of the missing pieces I don't have yet. Somehow, in the last year, something's changed."

"Maybe they lost their SDSSSDM," Abby suggested. "Or lost access to it. Maybe it was destroyed and the person or people who knew how to build it were killed."

It was McGee who asked the inevitable question. "SS . . . S . . . S . . .?"

"SDSSSDM," Abby said in a sing-song voice, tipping her head from side to side. "The Super-Duper, Super Secret Spy Disguise Machine."

"I think we should call it the 'thing'," Tony suggested. "That'd be simpler for those of us who aren't geniuses. The 'thing'."

"The 'Spymaster'," McGee suggested.

"The 'Bond Facial'," Ziva offered.

Tony's face lit up. "The 'Disguismatron'!"

"It's an intriguing theory," Vance said, "and, as far as I can tell, it fits the facts a lot better than any of the other theories I've ever seen floated regarding the Winchester brothers. But at this point that's all it is: A theory. And one with very little evidence to back it up. Get me some evidence people. And find the Winchesters. Because, if DiNozzo's right, there's been a highly sophisticated terrorist cell operating on American soil for years, and no one even knew they existed but Dean and Sam Winchester."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"I phoned Missouri Mosely," Ziva said. "When they were in the accident that killed John Winchester, they _were_ driving the Impala. She said she spoke to Bobby Singer at the time, and he believed the car was totaled, but Dean rebuilt it. Does that help?"

She, McGee and Tony were in Abby's lab, brainstorming.

"It should," Abby said. "Missouri told Gibbs and Ducky that she only saw Dean and Sam once, the last year that John was alive and just a few months after Sam's girlfriend died. Jessica Moore died on November 2, 2005, so the car accident should have taken place some time between, say, February 2006 and May of 2007. McGee, find me that car wreck."

McGee sat down at Abby's computer and obediently set his fingers dancing over the keyboard, even as he objected. "Ms. Mosely wants to protect the Winchesters, and she knows we're trying to capture them. What makes you think she'd tell you the truth?"

"She's psychic," Abby said reasonably. "She knows we intend to exonerate them. Naturally, she wants to help us."

McGee sighed. "Psychic powers aren't real Abby. Come on. Say it with me. Psychic. Powers. Aren't. Real."

Tony frowned, brow furrowed, eyebrows drawn together. "Why are you down here using one of Abby's computers? What's wrong with yours?"

"As if you didn't know."

"No, really? What happened now?"

"Somebody," McGee said, giving Abby a venomous glare.

"Somebody who's _not me_," she interjected tartly.

"Somebody introduced a virus that I haven't been able to eradicate. The computer will do whatever I want it to, but whenever it's on it keeps constantly playing a song."

"What song?" Tony asked.

McGee frowned ferociously, hesitated, then reluctantly answered. "It's a song about eating goober peas."

Tony, Ziva and Abby all giggled.

"Can't you just turn off your speakers?" Tony suggested.

"I tried that, thank you. I _am_ the MIT graduate here, remember?"

"Yeah, and?"

"It started playing on my phone. When I silenced the phone it came over the intercom and then Vance called me and wanted to know why the operative he was talking to in Kabul up in MTAC had suddenly started singing 'Goober Peas'."

McGee growled, then pushed back a bit from the computer. "Okay, I've got your car wreck. September 28, 2006. They were T-boned by a semi."

They moved in close to look at the pictures on the screen.

"Damn!" Tony said. "He rebuilt _that_? He is good." His voice turned introspective. "I wonder . . . ."

"I do not think so, Tony," Ziva said, voice soft and understanding.

"You don't even know what I was going to say," he challenged.

She smiled gently. "Not even a miracle worker could save your Mustang."

He tipped his head, acknowledging her accuracy. "Okay, so maybe you do know what I was going to say." He turned his attention back to Abby. "How does this help you?"

"Well, the SDSSSDM, or Spymaster, or Bond Facial, or Disguismatron -"

"The thing," Tony coached.

"The thing makes disguises so good that the computer can't tell the real Winchesters from phony ones. I can't even use things like height or body dimensions. They're just not accurate enough. Is he half an inch too broad in the shoulders or is he wearing an oversize jacket? Is he a quarter of an inch too short or is he having a bad hair day? _But_ there's no way they can disguise their car." She pulled up a series of clear shots of the Winchesters' Impala driving away along an empty highway.

"Where did you get these?" McGee asked.

"I took them with my phone yesterday as they were leaving." She fed the pictures into a graphics program and studied the resulting diagrams. "She's been wrecked at least once since then, too," she decided. "Rolled or flipped from the look of it. The rebuilds were sheer genius, but a computer analysis still shows up traces of the original damage. The frame is slightly skewed from the wreck with the semi and the curve of the roof is not quite perfect."

She pulled up another shot, this one obviously from a traffic cam. "This was taken a block from the third murder site last year, just before the killings." She touched a button and the computer program drew a diagram of the car on the traffic cam and superimposed it over the diagram of the Winchesters' car. Abby beamed as the image turned red and flashing words announced NO MATCH.

"You did it!" Ziva beamed. "You found a way to tell them apart!"

"Good girl!" Tony grinned.

"I want to keep looking at the traffic cameras from towns where murders occurred. We know the Winchesters think our terrorists are monsters and that they hunt monsters. They _had_ to be hunting these guys. If I can find them in two places at once, photographic evidence, that'll be hard proof that they're not the murderers." She stilled, quieted a bit, her mercurial moods shifting to something more solemn. "Is it just me, or is anybody else creeped out that we had these terrorists operating right here in America and no one even suspected their existence except for a couple of monster hunters?"

"It's not just you," Tony agreed.

"Maybe someone did know," Ziva suggested. "I mean, _we_ did not know, and it does not seem the FBI knew, but not all agencies are exactly forthcoming with their intelligence."

"NSA?" Tony suggested. "Homeland Security? The CIA?"

"We could always ask them?" McGee suggested.

"You think they'd tell us?"

"They might. If they didn't realize we were asking." McGee glanced around the lab, an unnecessarily furtive gesture and moved into the computer.

"What are you thinking, McHacker?" Tony asked lightly.

McGee had frozen, face suddenly drained. "I'm thinking we've got a problem."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"I wish I'd known you while I was still alive."

"Sweetheart, that's a terrible pick-up line."

"I do, though. And that I'd known then what I know about you now. Otherwise, I'd have probably shot you."

Dean glanced around the dreamscape. "What is this place? Is it real?

The athletic blonde studied her surroundings. "Sort of real? It's a conglomeration. The cantina in Gitmo where I first danced with Tony DiNozzo and the empty building in Washington where I died."

"A mix of good memories and bad memories. Or is DiNozzo that bad a dancer?"

She smiled. "He's not a bad dancer. And it wasn't a bad death. There are a lot worse ways to go. You should know. You've died some of them."

"So how'd it happen?"

"I was an NCIS agent, a team leader."

"Like Gibbs?"

"No one is like Gibbs, but, yeah. My guys and I worked out of the Pentagon. We got a tip. It was a trap. My guys followed a guy into this building and died in an explosion." He voice was sad and she shook her head. "I've got to stop mourning them. It's not like I haven't seen them again. Anyway, Gibbs took over the investigation. We couldn't figure out where the guy they'd followed disappeared to. Tony was the one who found the secret door into the empty building next door. Long story short, the whole point was to discredit a Mideast peace broker. They cleaned up the murder scene and went ahead with the big, inter-faith celebration he'd planned. Room was packed full of innocent people when the man who'd killed my guys came in wearing a bomb vest."

"What did you do?"

"What you would have done."

"I'm sorry. That sucks." He studied her speculatively. "That must have been a really, ah, _hot_ way to go."

"The shock wave killed me instantly," she said. "Afterward, yeah, it was pretty much Paula on the barbie." She grinned. "And now you're wondering what I'm tied to and what you're going to have to do to get rid of me. It's not like that, Dean. I'm not trapped. I'm not a vengeful spirit. I got my vengeance when I died, and I moved on like a good little agent."

"Good. So what are you doing in my dream?"

"I won the coin toss with Caitlin Todd." She smiled. "We're not prisoners in Heaven. We can come back you know. Except, of course, you don't. I know this is going to come as a huge shock to you, but when you had your little tour of Heaven, Zachariah wasn't exactly forthcoming with you. Or honest even."

"The dick was a dick? Imagine! Why didn't my buddy Ash tell us any of this then?"

"Oh, Ash," she grinned again.

"You know Ash?"

"_Everybody_ knows Ash. Ash is . . . Ash. You know how some people can't see the forest for the trees? Ash, well, Ash can't see the trees for the Pabst Blue Ribbon."

"PBR!" Dean said. His fruity tropical drink morphed into a bottle of beer and he took a long pull in salute to his lost friend. It seemed so real, the bitter taste of the dark, cold liquid.

"Ash is a genius, and he's figured out things no one else ever suspected, but he tends to not see the obvious. Plus, there's always the chance the angels were deliberately keeping him in the dark, just in case. They can be real sneaky bastards."

"So how does it work, then?"

Paula took a pull of her own drink. "Most people don't bother, not after the first little bit. Heaven's too nice and it's too frustrating to watch people you love struggling and know you can't help them. And you know you're going to see them again in the end anyway. So you let go and move on. Unless you're a cop. Cops aren't really good at letting go."

"So you come back?"

"The rules are different. We're not really here the way trapped spirits are here. Iron doesn't affect us. Salt still does - I'm not sure why. We can step over it if we have to but it's," she twitched her fingers and made a face, "itchy. You can visit people in their dreams, but most of them brush it off as just a dream. In the waking world, only some psychics can see you. And it's harder to interact with physical objects, though some people have a real aptitude for it."

"Like the ghost that's messing with McGee's computer?"

She smiled and her voice warmed. "Don't worry about that. It's harmless. I promise."

"Okay, but I'm still waiting to hear what you're doing in my dream."

"We just wanted you to know that we're here."

"We? You and Kate Todd?"

"And Jenny Sheppard, and Chris Pacci, and Mike Franks, and a few others. You're protecting our people. We'll help you if we can."

"And I'm supposed to buy that all this is real?"

"It is real."

"Then how come no one's ever visited me in my dreams before? It's not like I don't know any dead people."

"You mean like the Harvelles?" Paula asked. "Bobby Singer? Your mom and dad?" She snorted. "Please. Like you'd let any of them inside your mind! They know you too well. They might look around and see all the stuff you're hiding in here. All the pain and loneliness and despair. They might see how broken you are, and then they wouldn't love you anymore. You think."

"I let you in," he pointed out, sidestepping her observations.

She gave him a sexy little pout. "I wore a bustier."

"And a very nice one at that," he agreed, allowing himself a leer. Suddenly he shuddered and made a face.

"What's wrong?"

"Now I've got a mental image of Bobby Singer in a bustier!"

She giggled. "Ooh. Awkward. But maybe I can distract you from it. Got any suggestions?"

He smiled. "You could always try getting naked."

Paula Cassidy loosened the ties on her bustier, leaned in seductively with her mouth only a fraction of an inch from his and said, in Sam's voice, "Dean, we have a problem."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Gah!"

Dean flailed awake, gasping and spluttering. Sam held up his hands placatingly.

"Sorry, man. _Sorry_! I really hate to wake you. Especially when you're getting that look on your face, which, by the way, I _really_ don't want to know anything about."

Dean raked a hand down his face. "Problem?" he prompted.

Sam grimaced. "McGee found our hack. Charlie's cut the connection and she's confident that they won't be able to trace it back here but -"

"I'll still feel better when we're several miles away," Dean said, grabbing his jacket and heading for the office.

"The car's already packed," Sam said, steering him towards the garage instead. "You must still be tired. I'll drive and you can go back to your nap."

Dean stopped dead and stared at his brother. "What planet have you been living on where you think that's gonna be an option?"

Ignoring his brother's protests, Dean rolled up the door that opened onto the street and got behind the wheel. He drove out and stopped, waiting while Sam closed the door and climbed in beside him.

"Get on the computer," he said. "See if you can find us somewhere to go."

"I already have."

Dean blinked. "What?"

"I already have a bolt hole for us. I've got three, in fact. I picked them out days ago, just in case. And I've mapped out a route to get us there by going alleys and side streets, to miss intersections that have traffic cameras. Turn here, go left at the corner and take the third right."

Dean considered, pursed his lips and nodded. "Good boy," he said, impressed and allowing it to show. Sam smiled to himself like he'd just won the lottery.

Their route crossed a couple of busy streets and they couldn't avoid all the traffic cameras, but even if they were seen, no one could have guessed their destination. En route, Dean gave Sam an edited account of his dream encounter with Paula Cassidy. Finally, when they were across the city from the garage, Sam guided Dean up onto a freeway and then had him take an exit down to where a run-down residential area bordered on a busy commercial district.

"There's a tiny little side street just at the bottom of the off-ramp. To the left. Then left again, right up under the highway. Down the ally and into the last drive."

They wound up in the heavily overgrown backyard of an old house with a dilapidated detached garage and a four-lane freeway running by overhead and just a few yards to the south.

"Place belonged to a bank and was managed as rental property by a property management agency, only it never rented."

A semi screamed past.

"Wonder why not," Dean said and Sam grinned.

"During the stock market collapse in '08 and '09 the bank and the property management business both went under. Surrounding houses are all rentals with high turnover, probably because of the highway. The commercial district generates a lot of traffic. No one should pay any attention to us." He paused with his hands above the keyboard. "I've hacked into city utilities. What name would you like me to turn the lights on under?"

"L.J. Tibbs," Dean said promptly.

"No."

"Sa-am," Dean whined.

"No. Dean! We've just had one close call. Don't go inviting another."

Dean got out, picked the lock on the garage and opened the door, then got back in the car to drive it inside. "Thomas Agent."

"No."

"Thomas Magnum."

"Really? No!"

Dean grinned a wicked grin at his brother. "Pimmy Jalmer!"

"Absolutely not."

"You spoil all my fun, ya big wet blanket, you."

"Dean," Sam growled warningly.

"Mac Gregor."

Sam thought for a minute. "Gregory Mack. Okay?"

Dean sighed. "I suppose."

Leaving the car packed for the moment, they let themselves into the house to look around. It was dim and worn, with peeling paint and tattered furniture, but it was far from the worst place they'd ever stayed. Dean slapped his hand against the back of an old recliner and a cloud of dust rose up. He sighed deeply, a defeated and disheartened sound.

"She'll be fine," Sam said reassuringly.

"What?"

"Charlie. I know you're worried about her. She'll be fine. They won't be able to track her. Even if they try, she's got the 'cafeteria defense' in place, remember?"

"Yeah, point at the stinky kid." Dean tipped his head. "Say, who is the stinky kid?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "I never found out."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

In a condo in Miami that felt surprisingly bare now that his collection of pre-Columbian art had gone to pay legal fees and living expenses, former CIA agent Ray Cruz fixed himself a tuna fish sandwich. He leaned down to scratch his ankle under the cuff that held the electric monitor and contemplated the sad state of his affairs.

Just over a year ago, he'd been a high-flying CIA agent, an international spy with a promising career, a budding romance with the lovely Ziva David and an honest-to-God license to kill. Okay, so there had been strings attached. The hit had to be sanctioned and you weren't supposed to kill them on U.S. soil and you _really_ weren't supposed to take out innocent Naval officers by mistake. But surely those were just technicalities, and it wasn't like he was the first person to ever incur collateral damages.

He sighed.

His lawyer had gotten him out on house arrest while he waited to stand trial on murder charges. His house was practically on the beach, but his electronic tether was just a few feet too short to allow him to reach the nearest place from which he would have had a view of scantily-clad beach bunnies. The CIA had pulled his clearance and he wasn't allowed any contact with his former colleagues. And Ziva wouldn't even speak to him. There was nothing left in his life right now but playing online BoingBoing and chatting with his new friends, Jacksparrowrulz and team_edward437.

He took a bite of tuna fish while he waited for his computer to boot up. It came to life and started to load the BoingBoing screen, but then the screen flickered and shifted. He found himself looking at a video transmission. A lab. Not just any lab, he realized. The forensics lab at NCIS. Leroy Jethro Gibbs was standing in front of the computer, looking off to the side. He turned to face the camera and leaned in close, face grim and cold as death.

"I'm only going to tell you this once," Gibbs said. "Ziva's done with you and you're done with her. You stay the hell away from my people, Cruz."

Ray sputtered ineffectually, trying to defend himself around a mouthful of tuna, but the screen immediately went dark again.

Then his hard drive blew up.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

Gibbs turned away from the computer to address Ziva, standing in the corner of the room with Tony close by. "Y'alright Ziver?"

She took a deep, shaky breath. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm more angry than shaken. How long do you suppose that little weasel has been spying on us?"

"There's no way to tell, really," McGee said apologetically.

"We should find something to make you feel better," Tony suggested. "I know. Let's go throw knives at the CIA building."

That elicited a reluctant smile.

Gibbs turned back to Abby and McGee. "Just be sure you keep monitoring his ankle bracelet," he said quietly.

"You knew we were doing that?" McGee asked, surprised.

Gibbs just smirked and turned away. McGee re-directed his question to Abby.

"He knew Tony asked us to monitor Cruz's ankle bracelet?"

She shook her head.

"But then . . . ?"

She smiled a tiny smile. "Gibbs knows Tony."

"Ah."

Gibbs, meanwhile, had made it almost to the door of the lab when his phone rang. He stopped to speak into it for a moment, then turned back to them.

"Vance wants us in his office. All of us, right now. Ducky and Palmer too."

Leon Vance's office, when they arrived, was crowded. SecNav was there with a pair of aids and he was joined by the directors of the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, and the NSA. Tobias Fornell was there and CIA agent Trent Kort, a British national - a big, bald man with an eye patch and a nasty disposition.

Vance waited until they were all seated, then pushed a button, causing screens to close and shutters to slide across the windows. "We're now in SCIF mode," he announced.

"Skiff?" Jimmy Palmer asked.

Vance spelled it for him. "Secure Compartmented Information Facility. Ladies and gentlemen, you all know the Secretary of the Navy."

Secretary Jarvis rose and addressed them.

"The Winchester investigation is now top priority and classified above top secret. You will not discuss this with anyone who is not in this room and you will be required to sign a non-disclosure agreement when we are finished. I believe you all know Mr. Kort. He's here to read you into Operation Sugar Shack - the investigation into SucroCorps. and the destruction thereof."


	10. Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

Author's Note: Once again, thank you all so much for your reviews, favorites and follows! A couple of people pointed out that Trent Kort couldn't be a CIA agent if he's a British national and I'm sure they're right. Honestly, I have no idea what the deal with Kort is. He's definitely British (_very_ British) and he's certainly connected with the CIA, but as far as I could find out, NCIS has never laid out exactly how he's connected. Perhaps he's a naturalized American citizen, like Ziva is, or a liaison officer like Ziva was (from MI5 maybe?) or even, possibly, a freelance thug-of-all-trades. I'm hoping to keep his status and nationality from becoming too big an issue, but if anyone has any insights - if you've noticed anything I've missed - please let me know!

Special thanks to SkyHighFan for the help with Supernatural canon in this chapter! Any remaining errors are all mine.

Again, thank you all, and here's the next chapter.

Disclaimer: The Reese's Pieces made me do it.

Chapter 10: Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

"I want to warn you," Vance said, "I was read into this program yesterday evening. Last night, my nightmares had nightmares."

Kort stood before them and pulled a picture up on the wall screen. It showed a modern, glass and steel building framed against a clear blue sky. "Someone tell me what you know about SucroCorp," he demanded.

McGee shrugged a tiny little shrug, made a face and spoke up. "It is, or perhaps I should say _was_, a subsidiary of Dick Roman Enterprises. An American company involved in the manufacture and distribution of corn syrup and corn syrup derivatives. Last year a gas leak and explosion at their headquarters killed everyone in the building, including Mr. Roman and the entire board of trustees of Dick Roman Enterprises. The leak was traced to an inlet valve controlled by the same computer system that controlled product testing. Because it was unknown how widespread the computer glitch that caused the explosion was, all SucroCorp product already on the market was pulled on quality control issues. The SEC subsequently took over what was left of DRE. The final disposition of the businesses involved is still in litigation and probably will be for years. Apparently there were some questionable accounting issues discovered . . . ?"

"And that's what you all know, is it?" Kort asked.

As a group, they all shrugged and nodded.

"It was all over the news," Abby said.

"So it was. And that, children, is the official version. Now, I'm going to tell you the truth." He clicked a button on a remote and the onscreen picture changed to a shot of the same building but with windows broken and smoke roiling out.

"On May 18, 2012, local emergency responders received a report of an explosion at SucroCorp headquarters, however the call triggered an alert in their system, purportedly from the EPA, stating that SucroCorp stored unspecified toxic chemicals for research purposes. The fire department was instructed to contact Dick Roman Enterprises for information and instructions. They did so, but no one there had any information and they were unable, for what are now obvious reasons, to contact Roman or any of his lieutenants. Finally, someone got the bright idea to call the EPA for information. The EPA knew nothing about it. Because of the oddity involved, they passed it up the line to Homeland Security. A team from Homeland Security finally went in the building nearly five hours after the explosion. They are the ones who immediately put a lid on information coming from the blast site. The blast took out the labs and the IT network, including the security cameras. We estimate 97% of the information in the building was lost. The rest of the building was painted in blood, but there was only one body. Or, rather, only one _fresh_ body."

He clicked the remote again and brought up a picture of the body of a young girl, clad only in underwear, lying on the floor of what looked to be a conference room. There was a garment dropped next to her. The close-up that followed showed dried flecks of foam around her mouth.

"Who was she?" Ducky asked, voice soft. "What did she die from?"

"Her name was Polly Parker, age seventeen. She was a student at the local high school. As to cause of death, we have not been able to determine that. Whatever killed her had already broken down. There was no trace of toxins or biological agents in her blood or tissues. We do, however, have a record of her death. It was on a pad computer that was found under a cabinet in the room she was in. The computer was damaged and the recording is visual only."

Kort pulled up a video and they watched in silence as Dick Roman ushered the girl in and presented her to what appeared to be a board meeting. She stood placidly, chewing gum while they talked, removed her dress on command and without hesitation or apparent fear, then collapsed, foaming at the mouth, after Roman injected something in her arm.

"Oh, God. I'm going to be sick," Abby said.

"I'd think you're in the wrong business to be squeamish," Kort said, sounding amused. She turned on him, angry.

"I can read lips, Kort." She directed her attention to the rest of the room. "It's biological warfare, and way past the testing stage. He was demonstrating an agent that could be introduced into the food supply that would not only lower people's willpower and lift their inhibitions - like a date rape drug - but also selectively kill people based on genetic markers for certain traits. In this case, he said it would single out people with short stature, low body weight, and high intelligence. Then he drank it to show that it would only work on select people. It was in coffee creamer." She turned to her boss, plaintive. "Gibbs! They were putting that stuff in coffee creamer!"

"How much of it did you get recalled?" Gibbs asked Kort.

"We believe the first shipment of creamer containing this particular agent was still in the warehouse attached to SucroCorp headquarters and that it was all destroyed in the explosion. We got hold of everything we could that SucroCorp had already put out. Confiscated warehouses and ships and railroad cars full, issued a recall, started rumors about salmonella and e. coli to keep people from using anything they'd already bought."

"And then you destroyed it, right?"

"Of course we destroyed it. We mixed it with sodium chloride as a neutralizing agent and then incinerated it."

"Huh," McGee said. "They salted and burned it."

"Seems fitting," Tony observed.

"And that portion of it that you set aside to analyze?" Ducky asked.

"Is carefully guarded, believe me. We did locate a foreign ingredient in the SucroCorp products that were on the market, but it does not seem to have been the genetic 'magic bullet'. It was a drug that acted on the thyroid, slowing metabolism and inhibiting mental acuity."

"Making people fat and stupid," Tony said. "Why?" And then he answered his own question. "To make them more easily controlled. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Control."

"You said one _fresh_ body?" Gibbs prompted.

"Mmm." Kort changed the screen again to display a vast collection of dismembered hands and arms. "These came out of a meat locker in the basement. We've identified a number of them. This one, for example." He manipulated the image, singling out a specific limb. "It belonged to Dick Roman. As I'm sure Dr. Mallard and Mr. Palmer will tell you, it is nearly impossible to give an accurate time of death when the remains are immediately frozen."

"Or even a ballpark figure," Ducky said ruefully. "However, it seems to me that Mr. Roman was a fair-skinned and rather pale individual and a dark-haired one at that. That arm shows signs of a healthy tan and the hair on it is bleached to a light brown. I should determine when Dick Roman last went on holiday and take that as a possible date for his untimely demise."

"October of 2011," Kort said. "He sailed the Caribbean for two weeks on a private yacht. From the time of his return until the destruction of SucroCorp he was never out of the public eye for more than thirty-six hours at a stretch, he was never seen in anything but a traditional, three-piece suit, there is no record of him ever visiting a tanning salon and there were no tanning beds on any of the properties he owned."

"I'm sorry," Jimmy Palmer said. "Let me just see if I'm following this. Are you saying that, for at least seven months, one of America's biggest corporations has been in the hands of a terrorist with access to biological weapons, and has provided him with a way to disseminate them?"

"Oh, it gets worse," Kort said. He began calling their attention to different body parts. "This arm belonged to a high-ranking official with the FDA. This hand is the last known remains of a three-star general. Industrialists, politicians, scientists, military leaders, members of the media. They had infiltrated every level of our society and we. Did. Not. Have. A. Clue."

"Just America?" Ziva said finally, into the stunned silence that followed Kort's pronouncement.

"America, Canada, Britain, Australia, and New Zealand. Centered in America but with tentacles reaching into the homes of all our closest allies. However, SucroCorp was also trying to open markets in Europe, South America, Africa, and the Middle and Far East. We believe they intended to rule the world."

"Why keep their hands and arms?" McGee asked.

Kort shrugged. "Fingerprints? Palm prints? DNA? Trophies? We knew _something_ was going on. There've been . . . oddities. Things we didn't feel the public needed to know about. A mountain town in Oregon where all the inhabitants disappeared overnight. The only survivor was the town doctor, who claimed that the citizens were infected with a virus that caused them to go mad and rip one another apart. She, a retired Marine sergeant and a teenage boy barricaded themselves in her office overnight. The next morning the town was quiet and empty and the bodies were all gone. The Marine and the boy set out to leave while she stayed behind to notify authorities. She survived. Their vehicle was found along the road, empty, covered with blood.

"There was a pharmaceutical company that was destroyed under mysterious circumstances, leaving behind incomplete but . . . unsettling records. A massacre in Carthage, Missouri that was never adequately explained. The food poisoning incident at Biggerson's last year."

"The deadly turducken sandwiches?" Tony asked.

"The meat in those sandwiches came from a processing plant owned by another subsidiary of Dick Roman Enterprises."

"But it's all destroyed, so we're safe now, right?" Abby was looking for reassurance.

"We don't know that." Kort leaned on table and looked around, his one eye seeking each of them out for emphasis. "We don't know who was behind this. We don't know how extensive the organization was. We don't know how many of them survived nor where they are now. We don't know who took them down and we don't know if all of their research was destroyed or if it still exists and, if it does exist, we don't know whose hands it is in. We _need_ to_ catch_ the _Winchesters_."

"We don't believe they're the bad guys," she argued.

"That's irrelevant. They are the only link we have."

"You think this is all connected to the terrorist cell that we believe they were tracking," Gibbs said.

"In all of this," Kort said, "in this entire, huge, nightmarish clusterfuck, we had exactly _one_ clue. One tiny little clue that we did not begin to know how to interpret. Until you came along with your walking dead men and your perfect disguises and your oh-so-charming terrorist theories. It's a single frame that survived on the SucroCorp security footage, taken just minutes before the lab was destroyed."

He turned back to the wall screen and brandished the remote with a theatrical flourish. It brought up a screen shot, grainy and slightly distorted but easily made out.

It was a shot of the SucroCorp sign with a black, 1967 Chevy Impala embedded in it.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"It's the real deal," Abby said. Gibbs and his team had retreated to her lab, Fornell tagging along. Sec Nav and the members of the other alphabet agencies were gone and Ducky and Jimmy had gone back to autopsy to review the autopsy reports on the dead girl and the severed limbs from the SucroCorp building.

"What are you doing?" Fornell asked.

"I'm using a computer program to compare the car in the SucroCorp sign with pictures I took of the Winchesters' car as they were driving away from me."

"You got pictures of the Winchesters?"

"Yeah, on my phone."

"I thought you broke your phone?"

"When I dropped it, it damaged the transmitter so I couldn't make calls with it, but the camera still worked."

"Abby has established that there were definitely two sets of Winchesters," McGee said. "During the shooting spree last year, the Winchesters were spotted and recognized by a convenience store clerk just before one of the murders. The FBI agents noted at the time that they must have moved fast to get from one place to the other. Well, they didn't. By comparing the cars in the security videos from the convenience store and outside the murder scene, we now know that the Winchesters at the store were the real Winchesters and the killers were imposters."

"Now, we just have to figure out how to catch them," Tony said.

McGee sighed. "It's too bad it was Abby who ran into them and not one of us."

"You think it's going to be that simple? Just happen across them and put them under arrest."

"No, of course not. They're not going to come out of hiding that easily. I'm just saying that, well, Abby met them, but she's not an agent and she was unarmed. You met them, Tony, but you were also unarmed, and injured and tied up when they found you. These guys run into an armed, able-bodied agent, and it's all over."

"Don't underestimate them," Gibbs warned. "They've been fighting a terrorist organization we didn't even know existed. And winning from the look of it."

"That must be why the latest round of imposters were just look-a-likes and not disguised," Abby pointed out. "When they blew up SucroCorp, they must have destroyed the SDSSSDM."

"I'm not saying they're not . . . creative. And persistent. And certainly they're very lucky. But, guys, come on! They believe in ghosts and monsters and demons. They're nuts!"

"And if Little Timmy could just have a chance, he'd take them down!" Tony mocked in a rah-rah, cheerleading voice.

McGee turned to him, defiance in his eyes. "Yeah, Tony," he said. "I reckon I would."

Gibbs pressed his lips together, suppressed amusement. "In the meantime," he said, "I want to know everything you can find out about Hunting and the Hunter community. We still tracking that . . . that 'G-Man'?"

"Sure are," Abby said.

"Would you like us to pick him up?" Ziva asked.

"No, I just want to know who he talks to and what they talk about. Get me a tap on his phone. What became of the terrorists who kidnapped Tony?"

"Transferred to Gitmo," Fornell supplied. "The CIA has been questioning them. Two of them claim they were hired by someone outside their organization to deliver an NCIS agent to the old Littlefield house and they don't know who he was or what he wanted with DiNozzo. The third one contradicts everything the other two say. They think he's trying for an insanity defense. I gather last week he insisted he didn't have to go the bathroom and then wet himself."

"We need to track down this Angus character," Gibbs said.

"Who the hell's Angus?"

"He's the one who sent the Carvers to the Winchesters in the first place, which is what led the Winchesters to the old Littlefield house just in time to find Tony tied up like a calf at a calf roping contest. Most likely, that makes him one of the surviving bad guys."

"I asked the Winchesters if they knew an Angus," Abby offered. "Don't touch that!"

Fornell had noticed her purple, stuffed hippo and reached for it, a puzzled look on his face.

Tony, grinning, reached around the FBI agent and squeezed the hippo, causing it to make a farting noise. Abby smiled happily.

"How come he gets to touch it and I don't?" Fornell grumped.

"No is allowed to touch Burt without my permission," she explained. "Tony and Ziva have standing permission. Gibbs has permanent permission. McGee's permission has been revoked until he admits that there might be ghosts."

"I don't want to touch your farting hippo anyway," McGee said loftily.

"Angus?" Gibbs prompted.

Abby shrugged. "They said the name didn't mean anything to them. They were talking about a man named Crowley who they claimed is the king of hell and I asked if his first name was Angus."

"I thought Lucifer was the king of hell," Tony put in, looking confused.

"That's what I thought, but they said Lucifer's locked in a cage in the pit and this Crowley person took over in his absence. They did say, though, that Crowley was Scottish and might have chosen a name like Angus for an alias. They said his name was Fergus MacLeod," she did finger quotes, "'when he was alive'."

Ziva perked up, staring off into the distance.

"When he was alive?" McGee echoed skeptically.

"I ran Fergus MacLeod through every database I could think of, and Crowley too, but I didn't find anything. The name Crowley pops up associated with demons in literature and popular culture from time to time - have you ever read Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman? And there are lots of Fergus MacLeods in the world, but none I can find that seem like candidates for king of hell."

"I know that name!" Ziva said suddenly.

"Fergus MacLeod?" Gibbs asked.

"Fergus . . . no, I don't think so. But MacLeod, yes. I have seen it . . . ooh!" she screwed her face up, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth in frustration. "Somewhere! Ah, it's no use. I will have to look. But I _will_ find it.

"I know you will. Come on, people, let's get to work. It's time to catch ourselves a couple of real-life ghostbusters."

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"Well, I talked to Charlie. She says we're in the clear - NCIS took the 'stinky kid' bait, apparently."

Dean closed the magazine he was reading and gave Sam his full attention. "Can she get us back inside?"

Sam shook his head. "Too risky. She did manage to get us a copy of the autopsy report on the guys in the '68 Impala. The injuries from the car wreck were all post-mortem. They died of broken necks."

"Both of them?"

"Yeah. Ducky thinks they didn't realize the road curved and were watching behind them for pursuit."

"Demons snap necks," Dean said. "If they're powerful enough. Crowley could do it. But why would he? What would he have to gain?"

"Are you sure your exorcism worked? It had to be hard to draw a devil's trap on a moving car, with the wind in your face. Maybe they just drove away, got to the curve and smoked out. Guys could have already been dead."

"Eh, maybe. I thought they went while we were going under the overpasses, but it was hard to tell with the whole sun-and-shadow disco effect."

"So what do we do now?" Sam asked.

"I been thinking about that. Y'know, I was wondering if maybe we were done here. The hit on Abby failed, NCIS knows it wasn't us who were after her. They know someone was trying to frame us for killing her and if anything happened to one of Gibbs' people now, he'd go after them instead of us. Crowley must have figured that out, so it wouldn't be worth his time to keep chasing his tail here."

"Mmhm. You said you _were_ wondering."

"Uh, yeah. Had another visitor in my dreams last night. Don't know why these people are crawling around in my head instead of yours."

"Probably more room in there."

Dean grinned. "Are you admitting that my brain is bigger than yours?"

"No. Just emptier. Paula Cassidy again? Or Agent Todd?"

"Neither," Dean said, scowling at him. "Old guy, cowboy type. Long, droopy mustache. Missing his right index finger."

"Was he wearing a bustier?" Sam grinned and ducked the musty sofa cushion his brother pitched at his head.

Dean made a face and shuddered. "Gah!"

"So what did Mike Franks have to say?"

"Not much. Just, 'don't leave yet, boys. This rodeo's a long way from bein' over.'"

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"_Gavin_ MacLeod!" Ziva said triumphantly.

"Captain Stubing?" Tony asked.

She shot him a puzzled glance. "No. Captain MacLeod."

"Right. Gavin MacLeod. Captain Stubing." At her continuing, uncomprehending stare, he broke into song. "The _Looove_ Boat . . . soon will be making another run! Come aboard for adventure, your mind on a new ro_mance_ . . . ."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"You know. _The Love Boat!_ Captain Stubing. The friendly bartender - was his name? Isaac? - and Gopher, who later became a congressman from, I dunno, Idaho or Utah or someplace weird, which, I guess, goes without saying, seeing as they elected _Gopher_ to Congress. And Julie! Ah, the lovely Julie with the high heels and the great legs and that big '70's hair. Not the great big '80's hair. Just the moderately big, pre-'80's, '70's hair."

Ziva switched her attention to Gibbs. "Has he be struck in the head?" she asked.

"Not yet."

Tony drooped like a six-year-old in a wallpaper store. "You guys! Come on! Don't you remember The Love Boat? It was a TV show, back in the seventies. About a cruise ship, and every week would be a different cruise, with new passengers coming on board and they'd always fall in love or fall back in love or come down with rare diseases or something."

"What does that have to do with Captain MacLeod?"

"It was Captain _Stubing_. Gavin MacLeod was the actor who played him."

"Ah, I see. Obviously we are talking about different Gavin MacLeods."

"There's more than one Gavin MacLeod?"

"There must have been. Mine was the captain of a trading vessel who died when his ship went down off the coast of Massachusetts in 1723. The wreck was discovered in 1980 and Captain MacLeod's signet ring was among the artifacts recovered."

Gibbs was watching her, expression shrewd. "And this is relevant how?"

"Two years ago that ring - and _only_ that ring - was stolen from a 'Treasures of the Deep' exhibit at the Maritime Museum in Andover, Massachusetts. The police caught the man they believed was responsible, one Rufus Turner, but he didn't have the ring on him. He was extradited to South Dakota on a murder warrant, but escaped en route and was never recaptured. I dug around a little on some genealogy websites. Gavin MacLeod's father? Was named Fergus."

"Where in South Dakota?" Gibbs asked.

"Sioux Falls."

"Who signed the extradition order?"

Ziva smiled like a cat. "Sheriff Jodi Mills."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

By the third time he had to repeat his order, McGee was beginning to lose his temper. The barista was young, probably a college girl - a freshman or sophomore. She was awkward and coltish, with a gawkish charm that would probably mature into grace and possibly even beauty in a few years. In truth, though she was much too young for him, McGee would have been flattered by her blushing and nervous distraction - had he been the one who was causing it. He glanced over his right shoulder to see who she was trying so hard to flirt with and felt his own heart skip a beat.

Sam Winchester, looking flustered and abashed and trying his six-foot-four best to be unobtrusive, was attempting to slip out the coffee house door. An influx of office workers, rushing for their morning coffee break, pushed him back into the building. He looked up and met McGee's eye and sighed.

"Never mind," McGee said. "Cancel my order." Waving away the girl's stuttering apology, he reached for his gun and headed for the door himself.

Sam was waiting patiently for him in the foyer.

"You didn't run."

"It's a warm day. No sense running around and getting all hot and sweaty. Besides, it's too early in the morning to get shot."

"That's very sensible." McGee cuffed the young giant's hands behind his back and quickly patted him down for weapons. They could search him more thoroughly when they had him back at HQ.

Sam shook his head and sighed. "Busted by Jan Brady," he said, tipping his head back toward the girl at the register. "You know, my brother's never going to let me hear the end of this."

McGee took Sam Winchester firmly by the elbow and led him out of the building, alert for the possibility that Dean was lurking somewhere nearby and might try a rescue. None of the cars on the street were a black Impala. The nearest entrance to NCIS was half a block down and across a green. There was no sign of Dean among the scattered pedestrians and the only place to hide on the green was a single tree, ringed by a wrought iron tree guard and with a bench beneath it. It was too slender to conceal someone behind the trunk and the foliage, in this year of a late spring, was still sparse. The only color among the branches was a single, escaped balloon tangled low down.

"I'm sure Dean will understand," McGee told Sam consolingly. "After all, I'm armed and you're not. And I'm a trained Federal Agent. And you're not. It isn't a fair contest at all."

Sam Winchester hung his head and sighed. "You're right," he said. "It isn't. It really isn't fair at all."

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Gibbs, flanked by Tony and Ziva, strolled slowly across the green. Tony was grinning. Ziva was trying hard not to.

Gibbs stopped in front of McGee, crossed his arms and looked down at him. "Didja at least get my coffee?"

McGee made a sad face and shook his head no. He sat on the bench, under the tree. His hands were cuffed behind his back, fastened to the wrought iron tree guard. His gun and phone sat on the bench next to him and a deflated balloon lay on the ground at his feet.

"You wanna let me go?" he asked.

"In a minute," Tony said, pulling out a camera. "I've gotta get pictures first. For, you know, evidence."

"Tony!"

"Okay, blackmail."

"McGee," Ziva said, "I thought you were going to catch us a Winchester. What happened? And what was with all the weird phone calls?"

"I _did_ catch a Winchester. I just . . . didn't keep him very long is all. And I don't know why you think they were weird phone calls. I was just trying to get one of you to come help me. All you wanted to do was laugh."

"Yes, because you were talking like Mickey Mouse."

"When he called me, he sounded like Marvin the Martian," Tony offered.

"A Conehead," Gibbs supplied. "Abby said Darth Vader. What happened?"

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McGee didn't even realize Sam had slipped the cuffs until one of his big hands closed over the gun and twisted it away. He pushed McGee face-first up against the brick wall of the last building before the green and pulled his arms back, cuffing them behind his back. A few people gasped and shied away and Sam held up a leather folder and flipped it open, flashing a badge.

"Federal agent. It's okay. Federal agent. Everybody just move along."

The passers-by did as instructed, detouring in a wide circle around the two men.

Prudence and the gun in his ribs kept McGee from shouting for help, but he couldn't resist protesting in a furious whisper. "You're not a federal agent. You're not! That badge is a fake!"

"Is it?" Sam asked, feigning surprise. "Really?" Looming in close over McGee's left shoulder (the gun barrel jabbed McGee in the back) he held the badge up so they both could look at it. "It looks real to me."

"That's . . . that's . . ."

"Your badge?" Sam finished, sounding amused.

"How did you -"

"Get your badge? Gosh, I don't know." Sam made a show of thinking about it. "Maybe . . . I picked your pocket?"

McGee scowled at him and Sam returned it with a boyish grin that brought out his dimples. He led McGee on towards the NCIS building, stopping at the tree, just out of sight of the guards at the building's door. Pushing him down to sit on the bench, he made short work of cuffing him to the tree guard. Staying behind him and out of his line of sight, he patted him down, finding his cell and lifting it from the agent's front breast pocket.

"Wow. Nice phone."

"It's got a very good gps tracking system that can be used to locate it if anything happens to it," McGee pointed out, hoping to deter its theft.

"Yeah, I know. I had one like it once. Until it, uh, well, it got eaten by something you don't believe in." McGee could hear the phone beeping as Sam pushed its buttons. He tried to remember what was on his phone that the Winchesters really shouldn't know.

"I've activated the voice dialer," Sam said, setting the phone down on the bench next to him. "After I walk away and when you can talk again, you can call for help.

McGee felt a tendril of fear shiver through him. "What do you mean, 'when I can talk again?'"

"Don't feel bad," Sam said, instead of answering. "It really _wasn't_ a fair contest. You were trained by FLETC. I was trained by John and Dean Winchester."

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"I didn't know it, but while he was standing behind me, Sam had gotten the stray balloon down and untied the knot at the neck. He laid the gun down just out of my reach and, when I opened my mouth to shout for help, he held my nose, stuck the balloon in my mouth and let go. Instead of oxygen, I got a lung full of helium. Then he walked away laughing while I . . . ."

"Squawked after him like Donald Duck?" Tony guessed.

McGee sighed and nodded.

Ziva had picked up his phone. "Here is your problem, McGee. Sam downloaded and activated an app that changes your voice to make you sound funny when you call someone."

"Let him loose," Gibbs said. He skewered the younger agent with a glare. "Who did you call besides us and Abby?"

"No one." McGee sighed. "Ducky and Jimmy don't have handcuff keys."

"Good. This stays between the five of us. No one else needs to know about it."

McGee perked up. "Thanks, boss!"

"Don't thank me. I just don't want Tobias to know the Winchesters made one of my agents look like a baboon. And pack your bags, McGee. You and Ziva are going to South Dakota."

"Uh, South Dakota?"

"You're going to check out what's left of Singer Salvage."

McGee nodded his understanding, then paled as Gibbs added, "and I want you to interview Sheriff Mills. In person."


	11. Girl Talk

Author's note: Thanks again to everyone for the reviews, follows, and favorites! A couple of people mentioned spoilers, so I just wanted to remind everyone, as I said at the beginning of the first chapter, this is set season 8-ish for Supernatural and season 10-ish for NCIS, so it's possible there might be spoilers for any aired episodes of either series. That said, I haven't seen many of the current-season episodes myself (of either show) and I don't think I've had any specific spoilers. Nothing beyond the existence of a character or two and a couple of vague mentions of the Batcave and the Winchesters' connection to it. I don't really think you're likely to see anything here that you wouldn't come across just reading story summaries on ff net, but if you're really concerned about spoilers, you probably shouldn't read this.

Amitris also asked about the events Kort relates being canon. What I'm trying to do is present the law enforcement agencies' interpretation of events in Supernatural. Their take on it is skewed, but everything they're investigating comes from SPN canon. There's very little I've made up out of whole cloth. (Technobabble and mentions of creatures we haven't seen in SPN and how to hunt them, yes I made all that up. Specific events, no.) I hope that answers your question.

Apologies to Dorothy4 and anyone else who wound up with The Love Boat theme stuck in their heads. *G* Thanks again and here we go . . . .

Disclaimer: I have never found a sign from God on a Goldfish cracker, though I did once think I saw Justin Beiber's face in the pattern on a roll of toilet paper.

. . .

Chapter 11: Girl Talk

. . .

Tony DiNozzo pulled into his assigned parking place in the lot next to his apartment building, shut off the ignition and rubbed tired eyes. They'd been working non-stop since being read into Operation Sugar Shack and fatigue was beginning to take its toll. He'd driven Ziva and McGee to the airport and seen them on their way to South Dakota and then Gibbs had ordered him to take some down time and report back first thing in the morning.

As he got out and headed for his building, Tony's eyes strayed across the street, to where a high board gate closed off a wide alley between two buildings. The alley led to a vacant lot on the other side and, in the days since he'd last been home, a small carnival had set up there. Bright signs on the gate advertised that it would open the next day. Looking down between the buildings Tony could see a fragment of a roller coaster, half a Ferris wheel, and the canopy of a merry-go-round. In the near distance, just the other side of the gate, a big sign announced the presence of a moon walk.

His imagination caught by the bright colors and pennants flying gaily in the breeze, Tony studied what he could see of the carnival and wondered if he'd have a chance to visit it before it was gone. Maybe he could get Ziva to go with him. Abby would definitely be willing, and chances were they could drag McGee along.

If he hadn't been preoccupied, perhaps he would have glanced up, three stories high, to the top of the building on his right. If he had, he'd have seen sun glinting off a rifle scope and the gun barrel centering in on his forehead.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Ziva stopped the rental car in front of the ruins of Bobby Singer's house and Sheriff Mills, in her patrol car, pulled in behind them. McGee opened his door, thankful to have survived the Israeli's driving once more, and put his right Gucci loafer down in a puddle of thick, dark goo.

"Mud," Sheriff Mills said, standing before him with her hands on her hips. "I did warn you."

McGee sighed. "Yes, ma'am." He was really starting to hate this case. He extricated himself from the mud puddle, rose from the car and surveyed the salvage yard. It was very . . . redneck, he decided. Maybe he could use it as the basis for something in his next book. Certainly there was story potential there. An uneducated junk dealer, superstitious, not too bright, seeing monsters and demons in things he didn't understand and taking it upon himself to try to fight them. Agents Tommy and Lisa were always good for background comic relief and unresolved sexual tension and McGregor could take on Singer's superstitions with the sword of science and prove once and for all to Abby - er, _Annie_ - that _ghosts aren't real_!

He pointed out a small metal shed, newer than anything else in the yard. "What's in there?"

Mills shrugged. "Whatever Bobby was able to save from his house. His books, mostly."

McGee's eyes narrowed. "Books . . . like . . . his business records? Automotive manuals?"

Jodi Mills led the way across the yard, singled out a key on her own key chain and opened the door.

"Books," she said.

The interior was crammed with boxes and crates and stacks of books. McGee picked one at random, opened it and peered at it, bewildered. "This isn't in English. It's . . . I'm not sure what it is. Not Latin or Greek or Spanish or French." There was a folded sheet of paper inside. He unfolded that and found a letter written in yet another language.

Ziva looked over his shoulder, then took the letter out of his hand and studied it.

"The letter is in Arabic," she said, "from a Professor Afshin at the University of Jordan. I've heard of him. He's one of the world's leading scholars on ancient languages. The letter concerns translations of an ancient text from a Sumerian tablet, with reference to the subtext and the specific connotations of certain words."

McGee was nonplussed. "Bobby Singer, the tow truck guy, was writing to ask a world-renowned scholar for help translating something from ancient _Sumerian_? And who did he get to translate the Arabic for him? And, if this Afshin guy is a linguist, why didn't Singer just write him in English? Surely he speaks English."

Ziva smiled a tiny smile, looking a bit bemused herself. "You misunderstand, McGee. The letter is _from_ Professor Afshin. He was thanking Bobby Singer for his help with the translation."

"There's more stuff in there that ain't English than that is," Sheriff Mills offered helpfully from behind them. She sounded amused. "His specialty was Oriental languages, but I reckon he could figure out just about anything, if there was a need for it."

McGee tried to work it out. "So he was . . . what? Some kind of idiot savant?"

Mills' eyes hardened and there was steel in her voice. "You might want to be careful how you go throwin' around the word 'idiot', Special Agent McGee."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean any offense. I just -"

"We are being watched," Ziva interrupted. They turned to her and she tipped her head slightly, indicating a location behind her and to her right. "The house next door. I saw the glint of sunlight on binoculars."

"Widow lady," Mills said dismissively. "Just bein' nosy. I figure she's lonely."

"Nosy neighbors can be fonts of information," Ziva said. "Perhaps you should go interview her, Tim."

He frowned at her, gauging the distance and the obstacles in his way - mud holes and the rusting corpses of dead automobiles - and just able to imagine the look he'd get from Sheriff Mills if he drove the short distance instead of walking.

"Or I can," his partner offered, "and you can stay here and talk to the Sheriff."

"No, I'll go," McGee decided at once. He started forward at a determined pace and, in his haste, forgot the mud puddle by their car. He froze and looked down. Mud and icy cold water slopped over the top of his loafer and soaked his sock. With a sigh and a slurping noise, he pulled his foot free and stomped away.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"Are you a Hunter?" Ziva asked.

Sheriff Mills shrugged. "Nah, not me. I spend enough time chasin' humans. Got no interest in runnin' around after squirrels and such."

Ziva bit the inside of her cheek. "That's not the kind of hunting I was talking about, and I think you know that." She circled the other woman, studying her. "When McGee asked you how Bobby Singer helped people, you said, 'killing zombies mostly'. And I know that you meant to sound like you were being sarcastic, but I also know that you were not. You extradited Rufus Turner here on a bogus murder charge. He was still carrying the ring, wasn't he? Swallowed it, probably. It's what I'd do. It was something Bobby Singer needed for some reason. A ring belonging to Gavin MacLeod, whose father was Fergus MacLeod, now known as Crowley, the king of hell."

Mills gave her a level look, not ruffled. "And the U.S. government believes that? Really?"

"The U.S. government, no. The government believes there is a more . . . prosaic explanation for the strange things we're finding in the course of this investigation. But I am Jewish, Sheriff Mills. We have long memories. And I grew up in a very old part of the world."

"So I can just tell you any old thing I like and you'll believe every word of it, yessirreebob." The sheriff's voice was dry. "You're not bad at 'good cop', I'll give you that, but your friend's better at 'bad cop', or at least at 'annoying cop'."

Ziva laughed. "McGee is not a bad person. This case is just very vexing to him. The suggestion of the supernatural offends his sense of order. Someone - or some_thing_ - has been messing with his computer, which disturbs his equilibrium. And this morning Sam Winchester made him look like a baboon."

"He's green as grass and he thinks he's smarter than everyone else."

"Usually, he _is_ smarter than everyone else. It annoys him, the way the Winchesters and their friends are defying his assumptions. But he will learn from it, and be a better cop in the future."

"If he can do that, then I suppose he's not hopeless."

"No, not entirely." Ziva picked her way gingerly through the mud, to where a rusty, white metal lawn chair sat before the remains of the house. She lowered herself carefully, then relaxed when she was certain it would hold her weight. "I have been researching Hunters and Hunting. It is an intriguing subject, I have found. I've identified a number of people who Hunt. Some of them are, frankly - ooh! What is that expression? It has to do with bat droppings."

"Batshit crazy?"

"Yes! That is it! Some of them are batshit crazy. And some of them," she gave Jodi a shrewd look, cut a glance at the shed full of books. "Some of them are not. Now, I'm not going to say that I will believe everything I hear or read, but I have done many things and I have seen many things and I do believe that there is more to this world than McGee's computers and microscopes can ever quantify." She studied the sheriff, judging her, then took a deep breath and examined the backs of her own hands. "I expect you will simply think I am playing 'good cop' again, but I would like to tell you something. I have never spoken of this to anyone, and I would appreciate if it remained a confidence between you and me."

Jodi Mills pulled over another lawn chair and dropped into it, seeming unconcerned when the old metal creaked and groaned under her weight. "Shoot," she said.

Ziva crossed her arms and shivered, drawing into herself even as she composed her face and found her starting point.

"I came to NCIS as a liaison with Mossad. My father was the director, Eli David, and I was trained to be one of his operatives from the time I was a small child. When my assignment here came to an end, I returned to Israel and, on my first mission, I was captured by a terrorist. For months I was held in his camp in Somalia and . . . tortured. It was very bad. I knew that I could never escape on my own. My only hope was for my father to mount a rescue mission. I wanted to believe that he would. If it wasn't enough that I was his daughter, I was also a highly-trained operative. Surely I was a valuable enough asset to retrieve? But, deep in my heart, I had no faith. As the weeks wore on, I began to think, above all else, of finding a way to end my own life."

Her voice faltered and she was dismayed to find there was moisture on her cheeks. She swiped angrily at her eyes and Jodi Mills reached over and rubbed a hand along her shoulder. Ziva composed herself and continued.

"One day, I found the means to do so. I had been tied less tightly than usual and I realized that, if I strained just so, I could reach my left wrist with my mouth. I knew that, if I bit through the vein, there was a good chance I'd bleed out before anyone found me."

"What stopped you?"

"Tali came to me." Ziva caught Jodi's eye, gave her a small smile that was both warm and sad. "My little sister. She was the youngest of us, and the best, and the first to die. She was killed in a bombing when she was just sixteen. But she was there with me, in that horrible cell, looking alive and vibrant and as real as you are. I could smell her shampoo, feel her hand on my forehead. She said, 'don't you do it, Zi! Don't you dare. You're still alive. You don't throw that away. You've got to hold on and you've got to have faith. He's coming for you. He loves you, you know.' The next day I was rescued."

Jodi smiled. "Your daddy came for you."

"No." Ziva's voice was pensive. "No, he'd long since given me up for dead. He had never even looked. But Tali wasn't wrong."

Jodi Mills blinked, then cast her eyes in the direction McGee had disappeared. "Not that idjit?"

Ziva's smile was warmer still and, this time, without a hint of sorrow. "No, not McGee. _Another_ idjit. But Tim came too. They risked their lives for me."

"You do what you have to for family," Jodi observed.

"So you do. And Sam and Dean Winchester? Are they family?"

"They were Bobby Singer's family. I think you imagine I know a lot more than what I really do."

"Just tell me what you do know. That's all I ask."

Jodi shrugged. "I know they're not murderers. I know they're good men and I know there's more truth to what they do than anyone who hasn't seen it with their own eyes would ever believe."

"We know they were framed for the attacks in St. Louis and the murders last year. We can clear their names. We know there was something evil going on at SucroCorp and we know they were instrumental in stopping it. We need to talk to them. We need answers. Protecting the United States from people like that is our job, and we can't do that job without information that we believe only the Winchesters possess."

Jodi Mills snorted. "You know they're not going to be able to give you answers the United States government is going to be willing to accept."

"Still, whatever answers they can give us, we need. Do you know how to reach them?"

The sheriff sighed. "No. Dean disappeared in the attack on SucroCorp. Sam thought he was dead and dropped out of sight. I've only heard from them once since then. Dean showed up alive about a year after he went missing. He said he'd been to Purgatory and he had to fight his way out. He was lean and edgy and more than a little bit perturbed, I'm thinking, 'cause Sam hadn't looked for him. He wanted to check in and make sure I was okay."

"He had been captive for a year in Purgatory and he was worried about you?"

"That's Dean."

"How did he get in touch with you?"

"He called. And he told me to call him back if I needed anything. I tried doin' just that when I heard you were looking for them again, but the phone was out of service." She gave Ziva the number, but it was one of the numbers Abby had already identified. "So what do you do now?" Jodi asked. "Arrest me in the hopes it'll draw them out?"

"No," Ziva smiled. "We want to gain their trust, not their enmity. But, if you hear from them please, _please_ ask them to call us. We're not the only federal agency looking for them. Eventually they will be caught. We can help them."

In the distance, McGee left the neighbor's house and started slowly slogging his way back towards them.

"I should go pick him up. Not make him walk all the way back."

The two women got to their feet. Jodi looked around at the mess of a junkyard and the sad remains of the house that had sat at its center. There was sorrow and a wistfulness in her gaze.

Ziva stopped, caught by sudden understanding.

"Did you love him?"

"Bobby?" Jodi was startled by the question. "Hell. I guess I might've could've. But I guess I'll never know." She held the younger woman's gaze. "Bad things can happen in the blink of an eye, Ziva David. Just you be sure to hang on to your idjit while you've got the chance."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

There was a rush of movement from between two parked cars and a heavy body knocked Tony to the ground just ahead of the gunshot. A bullet pinged off metal somewhere nearby and he shoved his way out from under Sam Winchester and went for his gun.

Sam stopped him.

"Try not to hurt him. It's not his fault. He's possessed."

"_What?_"

"The shooter. It's a Marine. He's not in control. He's been possessed by a demon. Pedro Hernandez. He wants to kill you to get to Gibbs. A bullet won't even slow down the demon, but it will kill the host. And he's innocent."

Another shot rang out and the window of a nearby car exploded in a shower of glass fragments.

"So what are we supposed to do?"

"Wait. Dean's on it."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Holding his breath, moving with the silent grace of a hunting cat, Dean came up the last few rungs of the fire escape and rolled over the parapet onto the roof. It was a mansard roof - asphalt tile sloping gently from all four sides to form a peak in the middle. The surface was broken by air conditioning units and a vent stack near the middle. Behind Dean, an alleyway separated this building from the taller building next door. Directly in front of him, the late-afternoon sun played hide-and-seek with a cloud bank.

To his right, a young Marine knelt at the parapet and aimed a sniper rifle at a target out of Dean's sight below.

Swiftly, Dean assessed the situation.

He had the means to trap the demon - or, at least, he hoped he did. To the best of his knowledge what he was planning had never been tried before. But first he had to disarm the thing. No sigil or protective seal he knew of was capable of stopping a bullet. Shooting it would maim or kill the host, but do nothing to discommode the demon wearing him. There really was only one possible course of action.

Silently, Dean ascended the peak of the roof and changed direction, aiming for the demon's unprotected back. He took three running steps and launched himself into a tackle that would have done any NFL player proud. His shoulder connected with the demon's back directly behind the butt of his rifle and sent the weapon flying out of his hands and over the parapet to the street below. The demon spun, impossibly fast, and grappled with him.

Dean twisted and turned, relying on wrestling moves to extricate himself. All he needed now was a little bit of space and a couple of seconds worth of breathing room. Even though he was in excellent physical condition, the young Marine was no match for Dean Winchester, especially with Dean's fighting skills newly honed by a stint in Purgatory. And, in truth, it wasn't the Marine Dean was fighting with.

In life, Pedro Hernandez had been a fat, lazy bastard. Just because he had access to the young Marine's muscles didn't mean he knew how to use them.

Dean pulled free and dragged himself to his feet, staggering slightly on the slanting surface. He pulled out the object he had been carrying in a padded pocket and turned, but he was just a millionth of a second too late.

The demon's hand shot out and Dean felt his body rise up off the ground and fly through the air. His feet bumped against the parapet as he crossed it and then he was trapped, pinned to the wall of the building next door with the demon's power crushing painfully against the wall of his chest and nothing beneath his feet for three stories but open air.

This had not been part of his plan.

The demon pulled himself up and came over to stand on the side of the roof facing Dean, his hand still outstretched. The Marine he was occupying was young - probably no more than twenty. He had the powerful physique that marked a member of the Corps, but if you just looked at his face, with his bright red hair and freckles, you'd think he was a twelve-year-old dressed as a soldier for Halloween.

His eyes were coal black.

He gave Dean an evil smile. "Dean Winchester. How pathetic. I don't know why the other demons have had such a problem with you. Crowley's going to be so pleased! How shall I kill you, hmm?"

"Old age is always good," Dean suggested.

"Bravado. Nice. It won't last. Shall I just crush you, here and now? Strangle you slowly maybe? Slit open your belly and draw your steaming entrails from your twitching carcass?"

"Any one of those would beat boring me to death."

The demon fisted his hand and Dean gasped involuntarily as the pressure increased. His ribs creaked under the force.

"First, I will dispose of you," Hernandez said. "Poor little Sam will be _so_ sad." He made a mocking, crying face. "Or he would. If he cared about you. I think I'll leave Sam alone. He can sigh in relief and go have himself a normal life. You know. Like he did last time he thought you were dead. Get himself a girl and a dog and have moonlight walks and Sunday picnics while big brother rots into maggot food. DiNozzo's mine, though. Gibbs thinks of him like a son, you know? I think I'll leave the boy's head in his basement."

"Man," Dean said, shaking his head. "You know, I'm not surprised he ganked you. I'm just surprised nobody did it sooner, just to make you shut up." He looked down, between his dangling feet, then raised his head and smiled. He lifted his left hand, holding an oblong signaling mirror that he'd gotten from an Army surplus store and engraved with a devil's trap.

The mirror caught the low sunlight and Dean directed its reflection back at Hernandez, painting the trap around him in a pattern of light and shadow. For one bare second the demon's hold was broken and Dean plunged out of sight.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"What's a small, malicious practical joker that can pass through closed doors and windows, wears a red coat and cap and is not averse to killing or maiming the object of its attentions?"

"Riddles, Abs?" Gibbs asked, setting his coffee and a CaffPow down on her desk and pulling over a second desk chair to straddle backwards.

She tapped a pencil against the phone and recording device in front of her. "A Hunter in New Madrid, Missouri, called G-Man and asked him that."

"And did G-Man have an answer for him?"

"_He_ didn't, no." She chewed on her lower lip and Gibbs grinned suddenly.

"Oh, this is going to be _hard_ for you, isn't it?"

Abby cast her eyes to the side, got up, walked in a circle around her chair and sat down again. "I am a professional. I will not spoil a surveillance by injecting myself into the investigation."

"I know that," her boss said easily. "But it's going to be hard for you. So what is a 'small, malicious practical joker in a red coat and cap'?"

"I think it's a fear dearg - a 'Red Man'. It's a type of Celtic fairy, found most often in Ireland. If you carry cold iron for protection and ward yourself in a circle of unbroken runes, you can trap it by sprinkling salt at its feet. That's pretty much any kind of fairy. If you toss down salt, they have to stop and count the grains. Then you can banish it - or maybe kill it, accounts vary - by burning a green candle floating in a stone bowl of spring water."

"Green for Ireland?"

"Green because green and red are complementary colors. If you mix them, it makes a neutral color like gray or white. If you burn a green candle in the presence of a fear dearg, he'll turn to gray vapor and blow away."

Gibbs glanced over to her work table, where a crowbar sat next to a salt shaker, a stone bowl and a green candle. "You ready to be visited by this fear . . . whatever?"

"Fear dearg," she said. "Actually, I'm trying to draw or perform any protective wards or rituals I find, just to be on the safe side. It never hurts to be prepared you know."

"Nope," he agreed. "Plus, it makes McGee crazy."

Her answering grin was broad and slightly wicked. "It makes Timmy _nuts_!" She frowned at her anti-fear dearg kit. "I don't have time to go looking for a spring to get spring water, though."

The phone in front of her rang and the recording device kicked on automatically.

"Yo, Billy? It's G-Man!"

"Man, I hope you've got something for me! The damned thing struck again. It put super glue on the toilet seat. I had to take Bob to the ER. He's gonna be walking funny for a month. And the nurse thinks I did it. She thinks I'm a jerk. And she's hot, too."

"Suck it up, Billy." G-Man was unsympathetic. "If this job was easy, anyone could do it. Listen, I think what you're dealing with is a fear dearg. It's Irish. A member of the fae family."

"What's an Irish fairy doing in the Missouri boot-heel?" Billy demanded.

"What I was wondering," Gibbs agreed sardonically.

"Ooh! Ooh!" Abby sat up straight, thrust her hand in the air and wriggled with excitement. Gibbs tilted an eyebrow in her direction and she and G-Man spoke almost in unison.

"After the Great Chicago Fire, the Catholic Church bought a bunch of land in southern Missouri to re-locate church members who'd lost everything. There was a huge influx of Irish immigrants. Most of them didn't stay because the ground was too swampy to farm, but they were there for several years and one of them could have brought the fairy along."

"Like a supernatural hitchhiker?" Gibbs asked.

Billy was more interested in practical matters. "How do I get rid of the damned thing?"

"Okay, listen carefully. You need to protect yourself with cold iron and ward yourself in an unbroken ring of Celtic runes. Then, when it shows up, you can trap it by sprinkling salt at its feet and banish it by burning a green candle floating in a stone bowl of spring water."

"Where am I supposed to find spring water?"

G-Man sighed. "God, Billy. You're such a newbie! I have two words for you. Wall and Mart. Just be sure it says 'spring water' on the packaging. The other stuff is mostly just bottled tap water."

"Oh!" Abby exclaimed. "I never thought of that!" Jumping up, she went to her refrigerator and came back with a bottle of water. "I'm glad I only get the good stuff." She was pouring it into the stone bowl when Gibbs' phone rang.

He glanced at the readout and the line between his eyes deepened in concern. "What?" He swore. "Are you all right? Did you call an ambulance? Hang in there, I'm on my way."

"DiNozzo," he said, in response to Abby's worried look. "Gather up your good luck charms and magic spells. Dean Winchester just went off the top of a three-story building."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"Did you learn anything from Sheriff Mills?"

"No, I do not believe she has any information that will help us locate them. Though I believe she may be able to help us clarify things that we find at a later date, and, when we do find the Winchesters, I believe she may be willing to help convince them to come in. How about you? Did you learn anything from the nosy neighbor?"

"Marcy Ward." McGee frowned and went over the encounter in his mind.

_"He was such a nice man. Have another slice of cobbler, Special Agent. I'm sorry now I didn't invite him to dinner after all. I was just so shaken and so absolutely horrified. It was a monster! Such a horrible monster! Just clinging to the wall there. And it leapt on me! I was so afraid! But Mr. Singer pulled it off me and threw it in the wood chipper. I was just so shaken. I'd never seen such a monster before and to have it actually attack me . . . well! Are you sure I can't offer you a cup of tea, Special Agent?"_

"He was a nice man. She never had him over for dinner. He killed a spider for her and she's sorry he's dead."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

They'd risen from behind the car where they were sheltering just in time to see Dean Winchester falling between the buildings, disappearing behind the wooden gate that closed off the alleyway. Sam, shouting his brother's name, had attacked the gate, then given up and taken off to circle the block in search of another way to reach him.

This was Tony's neighborhood, though.

He ran into the building on the right - the one the shooter had been on - pelted down a central hall, turned left and exited out a service door that opened into the alley. He was on the phone as he ran, first calling 911 and then calling Gibbs. Before going through the door, he tucked his phone away and drew his gun. He didn't know where the shooter had gotten to or what he would find in the alley.

What he found, when he was outside again, was the carnival moon walk taking up most of the space between the two buildings. There was no sign of a splatted Winchester on the ground anywhere so he raised his eyes to the top of the attraction. The moon walk was basically a large bubble made of heavy-grade soft plastic and inflated - a big, bouncy air mattress inside a bright-colored plastic tent. As Tony walked up to it, the plastic shifted and he heard a deep groan.

"That's gonna leave a mark."

"Dean? Don't move! I've called an ambulance."

There was a sudden "shooshing" sound and Dean Winchester slid down off the top of the moon walk in front of Tony. He staggered a bit but he kept his feet.

"Ambulance? Why? Where's Sam? Who's hurt?"

Tony frowned at him, bemused. "Sam's looking for a way to get back here to you. He ran off before I could tell him there was a shortcut. And _you're_ hurt."

Dean frowned, spread his hands and looked down at himself questioningly.

Tony pointed up with the hand that wasn't holding the gun. "You fell off a building."

"It was a short building."

"It's three stories tall."

"I landed on something soft."

"You still fell off a building. Seriously. You need to at least get checked out."

Dean grinned. "You're not my type."

"Funny," Tony said soberly, giving the younger man his best Gibbs-glare.

"Would _you_ get checked out if you fell off a building and landed on a carnival ride?"

"Absolutely."

"Pansy."

Tony made a face. "Look," he said, aware he was echoing Dean himself and remembering how skeptical he had been when he was on the other end of this conversation. "Look, I know you've had some bad experiences with law enforcement, and I know you've got no reason to trust me. But I'm on your side, and everything's going to be okay now. Anyway, you knew you had to get caught eventually."

Dean stretched and twisted and his bones and joints snapped audibly, making Tony wince. He grinned. "You think you caught me?"

"I think I caught you both. And I _do_ know Sam's standing behind me with a gun right now."

"But you still think you caught us?" Sam asked, then immediately switched his attention to his brother, as if Tony's answer wasn't even important. "You all right, man?"

"I'm good."

"I don't know, Dean. You fell pretty far. Maybe we should let them take you in for X-rays. We can always escape later."

"Your confidence in our security is inspiring," Tony sniped. "Can someone pay attention to the _armed federal agent_ here?"

"Well, if you're not going to pay attention to the _armed wanted serial spree killer_ behind you, why should he pay attention to you?"

"Because I know you're not really the bad guys!"

That got both their attention.

"Say what again?" Sam asked.

"I know you're not really the bad guys. _We_ know that you're not murderers. You've been set up, again and again. We have the proof of that. We just need you to come in and answer some questions. We know all about you. We just have questions about the real bad guys - the people you've been fighting for the last eight years."

Dean snorted. "If you think we've been fighting _people_, you don't know as much about us as you think you do."

"Then you can explain it to me. At headquarters. Because what I _do_ know is that Sam's not going to shoot me. So I'm not putting my gun down. You're coming with me." Sirens sounded in the distance, drawing closer.

Dean approached him slowly, studying his face, looking in his eyes. "I'll be damned. He means it. He really believes that we're not the bad guys."

"Oh . . . ." Now Sam sounded caught off-balance. "Crap. But that should be a _good_ thing, right? What do we do now, Dean?"

"Well," the older Winchester said, a decided smirk in his voice, "I don't think Agent DiNozzo here has thought through the situation. See, the no-shooting thing goes both ways."

"What do you mean?" Tony demanded, frowning himself now. He wasn't following Dean's reasoning and it made him nervous.

"You really believe that we're the good guys. You're not going to shoot us either."

Dean was right. Tony hadn't considered that angle. "You don't know that," he bluffed desperately, trying to turn and get both of them in his view. "I might shoot you. I could just wing you. I'm not totally altruistic, you know."

Dean just laughed. "Hey, Sammy! You know what I think? I think Tony's had a hard day. I think he needs a great big Sasquatch hug!"

Tony backed away. "No! No hugging! No hugs! I mean it!" Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam grinning, tucking his gun away into his waistband as he approached.

"Stay back! I'll shoot! I'll do it! Hugging a federal agent is strictly forb_erf!_"

The younger Winchester wrapped his long arms around Tony in a tight embrace, trapping his arms at his side and lifting him so that his toes barely dragged the ground.

"It's no use," Dean told him. "Kid's like an octopus. Always has been." Turning away from them, Dean unzipped the door into the moon walk. Then he came back and captured Tony's kicking feet, pulling his shoes off and tossing them inside the ride.

Together the brothers carried the struggling, protesting agent over and tossed him after his shoes. The last sight he had of Dean Winchester was his grinning face as he zipped the door shut again.

Ignoring his shoes for the moment, Tony fought his way across the bouncing, heaving surface of the moon walk. The tab for the zipper was on the outside and he struggled with it, trying to open it enough to get one hand through. There was an odd noise, like a flight of birds. The carnival pennants, Tony decided, fluttering in a sudden wind. He could hear the Winchesters talking, their voices too soft for individual words to carry. A third voice joined them, deep and gravelly, and then he heard the wind blowing the pennants again.

He got the zipper undone and tumbled out, loose gravel in the alley poking at his stockinged feet. The sirens were almost on top of him now, but the alleyway was empty.

Within five minutes the carnival grounds and the surrounding buildings were crawling with law enforcement. They searched every nook and cranny, set up roadblocks, studied traffic cameras, put out a new BOLO. It was no use.

The Winchesters were gone.


	12. Daddy's Gone A-Hunting

Author's Note: Thanks again, everyone, for the reviews, follows, and favorites! Y'all make my day everyday. :) A special thanks to SkyHighFan for reminding me that Cas, or maybe I should say Jimmy Novak, has a look-a-like in the NCIS universe. The NCIS episode I'm referencing here is "Singled Out", season 4, episode 3. Also, there are vague general spoilers here for the last few episodes of NCIS. I haven't been paying as close attention to what's going on there as I should, so when I learned what had happened this season I had to use it. Sorry this update is so late at night! I fought with it all day, but I finally won. A belated happy birthday to SkyHighFan and . . . here we go again!

Disclaimer: I did eat my Wheaties. It didn't help.

Chapter 12: Daddy's Gone A-Hunting

"Bananas?" Tony dropped his backpack beside his desk and frowned at the bunch of fruit lying there.

"They are a gift," Ziva told him icily, "from Agent Fornell."

Fornell, leaning against her desk with his arms crossed, smiled brightly at Tony and waggled his fingers in a little wave. "I thought you and McGee might be hungry."

"Me?" McGee protested. "What did I do?"

Fornell's smile broadened.

"How did you find out?"

"Please. This is Washington. There are spies everywhere."

Tony peeled a banana and stuck half of it in his mouth. He looked up to find Ziva and McGee glaring at him, looking betrayed. "What?" he asked around a mouthful of fruit. "Free bananas are free bananas." He caught the scent of coffee and raw wood and ducked just ahead of the light head smack.

"You're in an awfully good mood for a baboon," Ziva said accusingly.

"Well, he did get a hug," Gibbs pointed out.

"And a chance to play in the moon walk," McGee added.

"Yeah?" Tony said. "Well, at least I wasn't chained to a tree in front of the NCIS building going," he put his hands behind his back, pretended to be struggling to rise from his chair and squawked, in a Donald Duck voice, "help! Help! It's Sam Winchester! Somebody catch him! It's Sam Winchester!"

"You can stop monkeying around and get back to the investigation whenever you like," Gibbs suggested.

"Right, Boss. Done monkeying around," Tony agreed. He tossed McGee the remote, then rose from his chair. He peeled another banana, alternately eating it and gesturing with it as he paced the bullpen, pointing out the images McGee had called up on the plasma.

"This security video was taken from cameras installed around the carnival at various points. We've got an image of the third man who joined the Winchesters. He came out of this shadow - there's a door leading into the building across from the building the shooter was on - and then the three of them exited the same way. We have a shot of his face from the camera by the merry-go-round. Look familiar?"

The others frowned at the screen. It was Gibbs who came up with it first.

"Justin Ferris. We brought him in a while back as a kidnapping suspect. He stole a car with a woman tied up in the back, abandoned it when he realized she was there and then the original kidnapper caught up and took her again."

McGee was already typing the name into a database. "It wasn't him, boss. Justin Ferris is currently in the county lock-up. Has been for more than a week. Stole another car."

"We'll talk to him anyway. That resemblance is too close to be a coincidence."

"What about the shooter?" Tony asked. Ziva shot him a 'you should know this' look. "I was a little busy leading the search for the Winchesters," he defended himself.

"Oh, did you want another hug?" she teased.

He gave her a smoldering look that made her blush. McGee stepped in before the exchange could become uncomfortable.

"PFC Victor Carroway." He clicked the remote and the young soldier's ID came up. "He was found unconscious on the roof, woke up hysterical. He claimed that he'd been 'possessed by something evil' that made him follow Tony and try to kill him. He's showing signs of induced psychosis and Abby found traces of sulfur in his blood. The doctor who survived the River Grove, Oregon, incident reported that sulfur in the blood was a sign of the 'demon virus'. We're thinking PFC Carroway was dosed with something out of the SucroCorp labs, probably by this Angus character."

Gibbs stood, still and quiet, and stared at the screen for a long time. "Here's what we're going to do," he said finally. "McGee and Ziva, I want you to get with Abby. Ziva, you've been studying the Hunting society. I want you to find us a hunt. Something local and deadly - animal attacks, bizarre murders, fires, illness, natural disasters. Something hunters would see as supernatural. And we'll need cover identities, Hunters, just you and me."

"Uh, Boss," McGee said, "I can make up something to draw them in if you want me to. We can have it released in the news. Surely that'd be easier than trying to find something that might come across as supernatural. I can throw in little details from the 'lore' Ziva's got - make it sound like something's really there. They won't be able to resist."

Gibbs took a banana from the bunch still on Tony's desk, laid it in front of the younger agent, leaned over him, both hands flat on the desk surface, and spoke in a deadly calm voice. "McGee, we're going to _stop_ underestimating the Winchesters now."

The feeling in the room had changed, charged. Gibbs was pissed.

McGee swallowed, barely breathing. "On it, Boss."

Only Tony dared speak up when Gibbs was in this mood. He did so now, voice soft but persistent. "You don't think the Winchesters will know you and Ziva if you're disguised, Boss? Because you know they've been watching us. They followed Abby. There were protective sigils on Ducky's Morgan and a garden hose full of salt buried around Jimmy Palmer's house. They know who we are."

"I know," Gibbs said easily. "Make the cover ID's as deep as you can. We'll use disguises. They'll see through it anyway, but the effort counts. The Winchesters are protecting us. If they believe we're doing something dangerous, they'll step in. Even if they know it's a trap, they'll step in."

"I'll comb through the FBI's case files," Fornell offered. "See if there's anything there you can use."

"I'll start checking suspicious deaths in the Greater D.C. area," McGee said.

"And I'll get with Abby to start on our covers," Ziva concluded.

"Good. Let's get on it. DiNozzo, you're with me."

Tony steeled himself and followed Gibbs into the elevator. His boss didn't speak until the doors had closed and the car had descended several feet. Tony wasn't surprised when Gibbs hit the emergency stop button. He had been waiting for a dressing-down for letting the quarry escape again. Waiting and dreading it. For the most part, Tony DiNozzo was secure in his life, confident in his work and certain of his standing. Sometimes, though, just once in a while when things had been going wrong, he still succumbed to the old doubt. The neglected inner child, passed off to boarding schools, dismissed and ignored. The little boy so unimportant that he could be forgotten in a hotel room and not remembered for days.

Gibbs was more family to him than his own father ever had been. The thought that he had disappointed the older man was physically painful.

'Sometimes timing is everything," Gibbs said, and his voice was mild but there was steel in the undertones. "I still remember the last time my unit was stateside before -"

He broke off, but Tony heard what he didn't say. Before he was injured. Before Shannon and Kelly were killed. Before the world tilted on its axis, wiped his life away and spun him off onto the new path that had led him here.

"One of the corporals under me got home just in time for his wife to give birth to their oldest child. It was a boy. Shannon and I went up to visit them in the hospital. I held the kid. I've still got a picture somewhere of me standing with the corporal and his new son." He turned and looked Tony in the eye. "Calloway looks just like his dad did in that picture."

Tony felt the breath catch in his throat. "You know the shooter?"

"Knew his dad more. Someone just drugged up the son of an old friend and sent him to kill my second-in-command." There was a possessiveness in his voice that warmed Tony, reminded him that his days of being forgotten were long past. "This was personal."

He turned and hit the emergency button, re-starting their descent. Spoke again.

"We're going to catch the Winchesters now. I need them to tell me who it is I'm going to kill."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Dean fell off a building."

"Tattletale."

Cas peered worriedly at his human friend. "Yes, I can see that his back is badly bruised. Also his chest and throat. Not all of these injuries were caused by falling."

"Yeah, well, the demon got a little gropey too. I kicked his ass, though."

Sam drew his mouth into a thin, disapproving line. "You kicked his ass by getting thrown off a three-story building?"

"Hey! I didn't get thrown! I made him drop me."

"Yeah, 'cause it's so much better to be dropped off a building than thrown off a building."

"You know, it wasn't just an accident that I landed on the bouncy thing. That was on purpose. I planned that."

"What if you'd missed?"

"You're saying 'me' and 'missed' in the same sentence, like that actually happens."

"Your brother's right," the angel told him gravely. "If you'd landed on the pavement, there's at least a seventy percent chance that you'd have been killed. I can heal many injuries, but I am not at all certain that I have the 'mojo', as you say, to bring someone back from the dead."

"I'm sorry," Dean said, feeling ganged up on. "I was being squished by a demon. It was that or fall and falling seemed like the best option at the time. What would you rather I'd have done?"

"You could have called me _before_ you fell."

"Yeah, well, I was a little busy."

"It needn't have been a long prayer. 'Help' would have sufficed."

Dean was silent, held his breath for two or three heartbeats. They were sailing into dangerous waters now. "You don't always come when I call you," he said finally.

Cas dropped his head. "I know. And I am sorry. There are things going on that I can't explain. Things . . . I 'm not sure I understand myself. But I will not ever knowingly leave you in danger. Not if it is within my power to come. I have in the past. I will not in the future." He raised his head and looked his friend in the eye. "At least call if you need me. At least try."

Dean cleared his throat, rubbed his palms against his jeans. "Yeah, okay. I guess . . . okay."

Cas stepped close to him and lay a hand on the side of Dean's head, catching him as he tried to lean away.

"Woah! Dude. Don't squeeze the Charmin!"

"Prince Charmin," Sam snickered. "That fits you so well."

"Shaddup!"

"Stand still," Cas ordered. "I'm going to heal you." A shimmer of light passed over the Hunter's body, visible only because the room was so dim, and Dean suddenly relaxed. He yawned and his whole body sagged as he fought to keep his eyes open.

"Dude! Did you roofie me?"

It was probably a sad commentary on the Winchesters' lives that, with all the slang terms Cas didn't know, 'roofie' was one he did.

"You roofied yourself, Dean. Not all of your injuries were from the fall. Not all of them were from the demon either. For days you've been walking around with deep bruises, cracked ribs, and abrasions on both arms. Fighting the pain has exhausted you. Now that the pain is gone, your body is demanding rest."

"I don't have time to rest. Quick. Somebody get me some caffeine!"

Cas sighed and shook his head. He put two fingers to Dean's forehead and the Hunter vanished.

"Woah! Cas! Where'd you send him?" Sam asked.

"Back to your bunker. The concept of having a home to return to is a novel one for Dean, but one he has taken to quickly. He will sleep better in his own bed and I will bring him back when he awakens."

Sam grinned. "Ha. That's awesome. You sent him to his room."

Cas tilted his head. "I do not think I understand your reaction."

"Sometimes, when children or teenagers get in trouble, their parents send them to their room."

"Ah. I see. But I did not send Dean to his room as punishment."

"Oh, I know. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to give him crap about it."

"Of course." The angel still looked perplexed, but then he shrugged, dismissed it. "Is there anything else I can do for you at this time?"

"Actually, yeah." Sam picked up a burn phone he had laying on the stained and crooked coffee table. "The spirit who gave us the heads-up about the demon going after DiNozzo wanted a favor. We told her it wouldn't do any good, but she hasn't been dead long and she was desperate. Could you give me a lift somewhere about, oh, ten or fifteen miles away? Just long enough to make a phone call. Then bring me back."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Director Vance was in his office with Agents McGee and David, getting a status report on their investigation. Gibbs and DiNozzo were out in the field and Abby was in her lab, doing random tests on things from the evidence locker and texting McGee odd updates on the tap on "G-Man's" phone, such as, "the chupacabra in New Mexico turned out to be a lost chihuahua. Burkhart returned it to its owner. He says he hopes the next one is a real chupacabra because chihuahuas are just scary."

Vance's cell rang and he glanced at the screen, then frowned when it showed an unknown number. The cell was his private number and one only a select few people had. "Be ready to trace this," he told McGee, then put it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Director Vance? This is Sam Winchester."

Vance's eyes widened. He motioned to McGee, then set the phone on the table and put it on speaker. "This is Director Vance. Go ahead, Sam."

"Sir, I have a message for you. And I know you're not going to believe me, but the lady was very persuasive and we promised, so I'm going to deliver it anyway."

"I'm listening."

"Your wife wants you to know that she still loves you and the kids and she's still watching you. And she said when you get where she is she's going to be waiting, so don't do anything you're not prepared to explain."

Vance sat, took a second to compose himself. His voice was almost steady when he spoke again.

"And how, exactly, did my wife tell you this?"

"She visited my brother in a dream. If you have a really vivid dream of her, it's not just a dream, sir. It's really her. Oh, and one other thing. I'm supposed to tell you 'lavender'. My brother and I are very sorry for your loss, Director." The phone clicked and the line went dead.

Vance looked up at McGee, who was talking quietly on his own phone. McGee held up one finger, signaling them to wait, listened, then lowered the phone.

"I traced it to a street corner in Bethesda, Maryland. Local LEO's were on the scene less than a minute after he hung up, but there was nothing there. They're searching the area now. Probably he did something clever with the cell phone towers, gave me a false location. I can't track it now that he's hung up."

Ziva tipped her head and studied her Director. "Lavender?" she asked.

Vance's smile was half grimace. "When Jackie and I were first dating, I was running late one day and didn't have time to stop by a florist. I picked some purple flowers off a bush in her neighbor's yard and told her they were violets. She corrected me that they were lavender. I insisted they were violets, just to be contrary. It got to be a running thing between us. She gave me a page from a gardening catalog. I gave her a violet crayon. It was a sort of a code, almost. When Jackie said 'lavender' it meant, 'I'm right. You're wrong. End of discussion.'"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Oh, great. You guys again.

"Gee, Boss. He doesn't seem happy to see us."

"I'd say it's nothing personal, but there's probably a law against lying to a federal agent."

"When have laws ever stopped you?"

"Look, whatever it is, I didn't do it!"

"Oh, we know that," Gibbs said easily, dropping into a chair across the table from Justin Ferris in an interrogation room at the county jail. "The guy who did, though, looks an awful lot like you."

Tony, settled into the chair to Gibbs' right, pulled a still from the carnival surveillance video from a file folder and slid it across the table. Ferris took one look at it, rolled his eyes and put his hands up.

"Okay, look. I had nothing to do with it. Whatever he's done now, it's not on me, got it?"

"You know who he is though?"

"Well, yeah, I know who he is." Ferris made a disgusted face. "That's my cousin, Jimmy Novak." He made air quotes with his fingers. "Mr. Perfect." He snorted. "My mother was always after me to be 'more like Jimmy'. Ha. 'Why can't you be more like Jimmy? He has such a good job.' 'Why can't you be more like Jimmy? He's such a good family man!' 'Why can't you be more like Jimmy? He never misses church, you know. He's a _deacon_. Jimmy teaches Sunday School!' So who has a psychotic break with reality and decides he's a," Ferris did the air quotes again, "'vessel' for an angel of the Lord? Huh? It's not me, bub!"

"You know, Boss," Tony said mildly, "before we started investigating this case, I'd have believed it was unusual to stumble across someone who thinks they're a vessel for an angel of the Lord."

A corner of Gibbs' mouth quirked up in amusement. "Any particular angel of the Lord?" he asked. "Or just, y'know, a generic angel?"

"Castiel," Ferris said. "The angel of Thursday. I mean, seriously? Who even knew Thursday had an angel? And why would you want to be a vessel for the angel of Thursday? He couldn't even find something cool to be the angel of? Like the angel of Saturday night fever? Or the angel of Monday night football?"

"So," Tony asked, "do you have any idea where Jimmy Novak - slash - Castiel is now?"

Ferris pushed the surveillance still back towards them. "You know more than I do. I just know he disappeared about four years ago, was gone for a year or so, then showed up for a day or two to explain himself and vanished for good. Left everything. House, job, wife, kid. Of course, his wife's as nutty as he is. After the second time he left, she decided that Jimmy is dead and it really is just this angel walking around wearing his body. Won't divorce him. Can't get him declared dead. I do know what he's been doing, though, Mr. Perfect."

"Oh? What's that?"

"He claims he has a 'divine mission' to 'protect the righteous man'. Yeah. And you know who the 'righteous man' is? Dean friggin' Winchester! That's right! The serial killer. 'A righteous man'!"

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"You're father and daughter," Abby said. "Harvey and Rebekah Stein. You're ex-Army, Harvey. Rebekah grew up on Guam, where you were stationed. That's why she has an accent."

Ziva frowned. "I do not have an accent."

"Of course you don't," Tony said. "Just try not to talk."

She made a face at him. He smiled back sweetly.

"You don't think the Winchesters will realize that her accent is not from Guam?" McGee asked.

"The Winchesters, maybe. G-Man - his name is Garth, by the way - hopefully not. Ziva has made some connections in the Hunting community. They're going to back up our story."

"What kind of connections?" Tony asked.

"I found a few people who had outstanding warrants for relatively minor offenses and I used the carrot-and-knife approach."

"You mean the carrot-and-stick approach."

Ziva took a knife from somewhere on her person and twirled it menacingly.

"Or not," Tony conceded.

"These are all people Garth has had contact with from time to time, but no one who's really close to him. The idea is that we will call Garth seeking advice or even back-up with a hunt in this area. We will tell him that one or more of these individuals recommended that we go to him. If or _when_ he checks with them, they will confirm our story and the charges against them will disappear. Or, they will blow our cover and I will gut them slowly like a fish but without showing them the courtesy of beheading them first."

"The lady drives a hard bargain," Gibbs observed with a faint grin. "And what, exactly, are we hunting? Do you know yet?"

"Between local papers and coroners' reports and the FBI files Fornell made available, we've come up with four possibilities." Abby swiveled her chair around to face the wall screen and brought up a map of the Greater D.C. area and the surrounding countryside. "First, there have been six people over the last three years who have drowned in a small creek on U.S. Corps of Engineers land just outside of Annapolis, Maryland. The creek is no more than fifteen inches deep at the deepest point, there are no marks on the bodies and they've all been fully-clothed, with nothing to suggest why they even went into the water in the first place."

"So why did they all drown, do you suppose?" McGee asked.

"I'm thinking a water elemental or possibly a water horse. They're mostly found in Celtic and Gaelic lore, but a lot of settlers came to the South from Scotland and Ireland in the mid-1800's and could have easily brought one along. A few polished stones or a bit of sand from the river, to remind them of home, and belief. Belief counts for a lot, you know."

McGee just looked at Abby. "I meant in real life."

She stared back, defiant.

"Are we going to have to have this discussion now?" Gibbs asked.

"Boss," McGee said, "she -"

"Let me re-phrase that," his boss said. "We are _not_ going to have this discussion now. So, we're hunting some kind of fairy?"

"No, I don't think so," Abby sighed.

McGee rolled his eyes. "But you just said -"

"The deaths have all occurred in the fall. If we haven't caught the Winchesters by, say, October, _then_ we can hunt a fairy. Hunting it now wouldn't make any sense." (McGee muttered something under his breath, but she ignored him.) "Claiming that we were would just mark us as amateurs."

"What's our second option?" Gibbs asked.

"There have been eight deaths from snakebite in Rock Creek Park in the last two years. Oddly, in none of the cases were officials able to identify the exact type of snake involved. _And_ there have been several reported sightings of a large snake with more than one head."

"Snakebites in the woods," McGee said sarcastically. "Wow, now if that's not supernatural nothing is."

Abby made a face at him. "It's odder than you think, Timmy. But . . . not very flashy, maybe."

"What else do you have?" Gibbs asked.

"Wild dog attack? Could pass for a black dog, but it doesn't really fit the lore. And, last but possibly not least, there's a vampire."

"Vampire?"

"Three victims, all women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four. All of them have two puncture wounds in their neck and all have been exsanguinated. All were killed where they were found - there's no evidence of the bodies being moved after death. But there's very little blood on the ground around them."

"Sounds perfect."

Abby looked unhappy. "Not really."

"What's wrong," Gibbs asked his forensic scientist. "I know you like vampires."

"It's not that, Gibbs. Or not just that. These murders don't really fit the lore. _Movie_ vampires leave two puncture wounds in the victim's throat. Vampires in the lore we've been reading tear their victim's throats out. The deaths are usually reported as animal attacks. I'd think it was some kind of weirdo wanna-be vampires doing the killing, but the blood is gone. How are they getting rid of the blood? Could an ordinary human be drinking their victims' blood? I mean, I guess they could, but _eeugh!_ That's so gross!"

"Where are the murders taking place?"

"That's another thing. They're all over the place. How do you hunt something that spreads its kills around so much?"

"Those are all good questions, Abs. Maybe we should ask a more experienced Hunter for advice?"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Uh, yeah. Is this Garth?"

"Who wants to know?"

"We've never met. My name is Harvey Stein. My daughter Rebekah hunts with me. We worked with Jasper Onslow on a shtriga last year. I called him for help with a hunt I've got going but he's laid up with a broken leg. He gave me your number, suggested I call."

"Tell me where you are and what you've got."

"We're in Washington, D.C. and, as for what we've got, we're not too sure. I'm gonna level with you, Garth. Becky and I, we're pretty new to the life. Apart from that shtriga, we've never handled anything but routine salt-and-burns."

"How did you become Hunters?"

"Went camping up in Minnesota, autumn before last. Nearly got taken as snacks by a wendigo."

"You killed a wendigo?"

"Hell no. An old man showed up and saved our asses. Guy named Rufus Turner? I gather he's not around anymore. We were sorry to hear that. He was an ornery old son of a bitch, but he sure saved our bacon. After it was all over, I bribed him with Johnny Walker Blue and he told us a bit about what's really out there. Knowing what we now know, we couldn't _not_ hunt."

"I knew Rufus," Garth said. He was silent for a long moment and Gibbs wondered if he'd screwed this up already. Then Garth spoke again. "Tell me what you think you've got."

"Something's leaving young women dead and drained of blood, with two puncture marks on their neck. There's considerable bruising around the puncture wounds, a circular mark like something an octopus' sucker would leave behind, but no other marks on the bodies."

"Wow," Garth said, voice bright. "That sounds just like a vampire, doesn't it?"

Gibbs as Harvey Stein snorted derisively. "Yeah, I'm not that much of a newbie. A vampire would tear their throats out. Frankly, I'd be inclined to dismiss it as an ordinary human vampire wannabe. Except that the blood is always gone. Also, the kill sites are all over the city. I don't even begin to know where to start looking for this person or thing."

"Let me look into it and see what I can come up with."

"I'd be glad if you did. Do you need our research?"

"That's not necessary. I have my own sources. Can I reach you back at this number?"

"Any time night or day."

"Okay, good. Just sit tight and I'll get back to you as soon as I know something."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

They had been waiting for Garth to call them back for more than twelve hours. The entire team was gathered in Abby's lab, pretending to go over the evidence again, when Abby called their attention to an oddity in the surveillance video from the carnival.

"Hey, guys! Look at this!"

They came over and gathered around behind her as she used a laser pointer to draw circles on the image she had up on the wall screen. "You know how Jimmy Novak is supposed to be an angel now? Well, if you look at this one camera feed, just for a second it looks like he's casting the shadow of invisible wings."

"It's the pennants from the carnival," McGee said, disgusted.

"For pennants to cast that shadow, two of them would have to be blowing in different directions in the same wind."

"Not necessarily. They'd probably be on different poles, maybe several dozen feet apart. There could have been gusty breezes and the buildings around could have directed those breezes in different directions."

"Why would pennants 'several dozen feet apart' cast their shadows in the same place?"

"They could be in a direct line between that spot and the sunlight."

"Then the one that was farthest away should be smaller."

"Maybe the one that was closer got wrapped around the flag pole a few times so it _looked_ shorter!"

Abby sighed and rolled her eyes. "So you think this can be easily explained by a long string of highly improbable coincidences?"

"I think there's bound to be a rational explanation. Now, if -"

"If, if, if!" Abby said. "Everything is 'if' with you. You know ifs don't make for explanations."

"Oh, yeah? Well I know one thing. _If_ he is an angel and _if_ he has invisible wings, they shouldn't cast shadows. For them to cast shadows, there'd have to be something there blocking the light and having _nothing_ blocking the light is kind of the definition of 'invisible'!"

Tony and Ziva were watching from across the room.

"Maybe we should separate them," Ziva suggested.

"I was thinking more along the lines of gagging one of them. Or both."

"We could lock them in Abby's office. It is soundproof, is it not?"

"Ooh!" Tony's eyes went distant as he thought this through. "Maybe we could lock _us_ in Abby's office. I bet the floor's soft in there. We cold sleep. Do you remember that? Sleep? Because I'm starting to forget what it is."

Harvey Stein's burn phone chose that moment to ring, effectively cutting off Abby and McGee's argument.

Gibbs cast a quick look around the room, silencing them with his eyes, then opened the phone.

"Stein?" Garth asked.

"I'm here. Talk to me."

"Well, I had a look at your hunt and you're right. It makes no sense to me either. Fortunately, there are a couple of very experienced Hunters in your area. They looked over the information and found a pattern. They think your killer's going to strike again tomorrow night, between midnight and one-thirty A.M. between Decatur and Union Avenue in Washington D.C. proper. If you want to go after it, take silver, salt, holy water and lead. They'll meet you there and provide back up, but this is your hunt unless you want them to take it over."

"Back up would be good. Experienced, you say?"

"Yeah. Real experienced."

"Great. So how do I find them?"

"Don't worry. They'll find you. Their names are gonna be Dean and Sam."


	13. Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave

Author's Note: Thanks again, everyone, for all the lovely reviews, favorites and follows! I really appreciate everyone's comments and observations even when, I hate to admit, I don't entirely understand them. ndmzero, I appreciate your comments about addresses in D.C., but I'm still totally confused. I live in a county that has, like, 7 traffic signals in the whole county. I work in a county that only has one. I think I would get SOOOO lost in D.C.! Anyway, I'm just tacking a "northwest" onto the address I made up at the end of the last chapter. Hope that helps the issue some?

Based on comments, I think this chapter is not going to be what *most* of you are expecting. (See additional author's note at the end.) I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

Disclaimer: I don't do these things just to make you crazy.

Chapter 13: Oh, What a Tangled Web We Weave

Contrary to popular belief, black shadows are not invisible in the night. Clad in soft dark grays, with rubber-soled shoes and stocking caps hiding their hair, "Harvey Stein" and his daughter "Rebekah" left their beat up Dodge Dart in the crowded parking lot of an all-night pharmacy. Arming themselves from the hidden compartment in the trunk, they locked the car and walked the two blocks to a small park where Dean and Sam, according to Garth, had decided the killer was most likely to strike next.

They scouted the location first, cautious, looking for any sign of the killer as well as any sign of the Winchesters. While there was no reason to believe the brothers should be able to pinpoint the next attack of a random murderer, they had shown such an uncanny resourcefulness that Gibbs wasn't willing to dismiss the possibility out of hand.

As they slipped into the shadows of the park, Gibbs' phone vibrated. He checked the caller ID before answering.

"Garth? We're here. Where are your boys?"

"Dean and Sam are already in place. You and your daughter need to find good cover off the main path. There's a woman named Lila Masters who works in a coffee shop on the north side of the park. She lives in the apartment complex just to the west and takes a shortcut through the park on her way home. She's scheduled off at midnight, but sometimes she has to work late. She's your 'vampire's' next target. When she comes in the park, you'll need to stick close to her, but stay out of sight."

"What makes you think she's the next target?"

"Dean will explain. Now, Dean and Sam have special ammo for this thing, so if you can let them get in the first shots without endangering the victim, that's going to be your best bet."

"What is this thing? And what will take it down?"

"Well, it's definitely a monster. And anything you shoot it with will take it down, but Sam and Dean will get you the best results."

"What are they shooting?"

"Hey! Gotta go. Got another call."

"But -"

"Don't worry! I'm leaving you in _very_ experienced hands!"

Garth hung up. Gibbs bit back a growl and Ziva, who had been listening in via a Bluetooth link, moved close to talk to him.

"What do you think?" she asked, lips right against his ear, voice so quiet it barely carried even that short distance.

He leaned into her ear, replied the same way. "They're being careful. We knew they would be. I'd say if our 'monster' doesn't show, we won't see them. We expected this."

"So . . . hide?"

He replied with a tilt of his head, indicating one side of the walkway. Ziva melted into the shadows under the trees and Gibbs did the same across from her.

Minutes stretched into half an hour, then three-quarters. It was ten 'til one before they heard the sound of footsteps on pavement and the shadow of a woman approached from the north. She was wearing khaki cargo pants, sensible work shoes and a polo shirt that was clearly a uniform. The scent of coffee came with her as she entered the park and headed down the dark path between the trees.

Harvey Stein and his daughter Rebekah paced her in the undergrowth, as silent as if they'd been a Marine sniper and a trained assassin. Gibbs had his gun out, ready and alert, but it still nearly caught him by surprise when a huge, misshapen figure lunged out of the undergrowth ahead of him and tackled the woman to the ground.

The attacker was massive, bulky, with an odd, cylindrical protuberance on its back. As it twisted and struggled with its prey, two sharp . . . things - claws? Fangs? - gleamed dully in the faint glow from distant streetlights.

Gibbs and Ziva emerged simultaneously, weapons up and ready, but two more figures had melted out of the shadows on the other side of the struggling couple. They came out of the bushes already firing, their weapons making a soft "phht, phht" sound.

The monster drew back, abandoning its quarry. The woman scuttled away from it, crab-walking backwards until she collapsed in the grass, clutching her throat in horror.

The beast reared up, snarled in fury. It staggered and stumbled and then . . . it fell.

The taller of the two newcomers went to the woman, stooping down to talk softly to her, offer comfort. The shorter approached the fallen monster cautiously, gun still at the ready.

Gibbs and Ziva came up from their own positions. Gibbs shone a flashlight on the monster. The first thing the light caught was the hump on its back. In the flashlight beam it shone black and yellow. Big letters spelled out, "SHOP VAC".

"It's a man," Ziva said. "A big man, but just a man. Killing women with a vacuum cleaner and . . . is that a barbecue fork?"

"He's tranqued. Enough to knock out a water buffalo. Harvey Stein?" the smaller Hunter asked. "And Rebekah, right?"

"That's right," Gibbs agreed. "And you are . . .?"

"I'm Dean, and that's my sister, Samantha."

Gibbs raised his light to illuminate a teenage girl, dark-haired, with a heart-shaped face and an expression that simply radiated _smartass_. 'Samantha' was another teenager, a tall, athletic black girl maybe a year or two older.

"Dean?"

She shrugged, smirked. "It's short for 'Deanna'."

"How'd you know?' Gibbs asked. "How'd you figure out she was the next target and that the attack would take place here, tonight?"

"If you look at the first three victims, you'll find they all used the same Internet provider. And they all recently called tech support and they all talked to the same tech guy. You know how, when you call a company, there's always a recording that says 'all calls are recorded for training and quality purposes'? Well, they really are. We found the recordings of the victims' calls and in each case the tech guy was rude to them and they threatened to report him. The first one actually did. And then they were killed four days later. He used that time to stalk them. The actual times and locations of the murders varied according to the victims' schedules. We listened in on his calls until someone else argued with him."

"And the vacuum cleaner/barbecue fork M.O.?"

"He's a Twilight fanboy. Be careful touching him. He's probably wearing body glitter. You'll get it all over you."

"That's good work," Gibbs said, and meant it. He cocked his head. "Did you figure it all out by yourself? Really?"

She shrugged, smiled a secret little smile. "Well, we might have had a little help."

"From another Dean and Sam?"

Her smile broadened. "Maybe."

"So, if you and Sam are experienced Hunters, maybe you can tell my daughter and me something."

She shrugged, tipped her head. "Maybe."

"What do you do when your monster trap catches a human?"

"Well, normally we'd alert the cops, make sure he got caught with the evidence. In this case, though, we figured we'd just leave him to you." She caught 'Samantha's' eye and the two of them headed for the exit. Just before she melted back into the shadows under the trees 'Dean' turned back.

"Oh, and Agent Gibbs?" she called. She grinned a huge, smug grin at him. "You've been Garthed!"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Krissy Chambers and Josephine Barnes." Abby smiled at the onscreen pictures of the two young women. "They live in Conway Springs, Kansas, with another teenager, a boy named Aiden. They're all three survivors of families that were brutally murdered. We already knew quite a bit about them, actually, though we weren't aware that they were in D.C."

"According to my Hunter connections," Ziva said, "the Winchesters will consider it a personal favor for anyone to keep anything 'fugly' away from Conway Springs. I'm surprised they allowed them to go on this hunt alone."

"They didn't," Gibbs said. "The Winchesters were there, somewhere. DiNozzo check in yet?"

McGee nodded, not looking up from his computer. "No sign of the Impala anywhere within a ten-block radius. The girls were driving a 2002 Toyota Corolla. He tagged it with a tracking device. They're heading towards I-70. Looks like they're going to head straight back to Kansas."

"Krissy won't leave without talking to Dean," Ducky said. He was sitting off to the side, carefully preparing a pot of tea. He spoke without looking up. "She has been calling Garth daily, wanting to know if he'd heard from the Winchesters. Dean specifically. It's how she came to our attention in the first place. There's a . . . connection between them."

"A connection?" McGee said, eyebrows raised, mouth pulled down in a disapproving frown. "Between Dean Winchester and a sixteen-year-old girl?"

Ducky turned to face the rest of them, gave McGee a tolerant smile. "Nothing like that, Timothy. She looks up to him. He's someone she trusts and respects, although I'm quite certain she'd never admit that to his face. And she likes him, and he quite obviously likes her back. She values his opinion and she'll want the satisfaction of having him praise her for a job well-done."

"And she'll want one more chance to threaten him in person," Abby put in. "It's the 'big brother' thing. Dean's got this whole 'awesome big brother' vibe."

"Threaten him?" Gibbs asked.

"It's the message she'd been leaving with Garth. 'You tell Dean that if he gets himself caught, I'll personally come and kick his old-guy ass.'"

"They're stopping," McGee said. "At a truck stop, just off the Interstate."

"Are we there?" Gibbs asked.

McGee put one hand against the earpiece he was wearing, listened for a couple of seconds before he answered. "Tony has a visual. He can't get close without being seen."

"Tell him 'Plan B'."

McGee relayed the message. "And Tony says, 'on it, Boss!'"

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Tony DiNozzo pulled in between two rigs that were parked for the night. When they were shielded from the view of anyone inside the truck stop he said, "clear" and Stan Burley rose from where he had lain out of sight on the back seat. Tony tossed him the keys and Stan got out, circled the semi nearest the door and headed inside, stretching and letting the keys dangle in plain sight.

Tony, meanwhile, set up a laser microphone and pointed it at the truck stop window. "Laser mike set," he reported to McGee via the Bluetooth headset he was wearing. "Do a sound check."

"Sound check, check," McGee replied. "We're getting a lot of kitchen noises. Can you try angling it more towards the dining room?"

Tony adjusted the microphone.

"Perfect." He could hear the satisfaction in his partner's voice.

A pair of headphones were attached to the microphone itself and Tony slipped them on, leaving one phone off his ear to allow for the Bluetooth. "What have we got so far?" he asked.

"Burley just ordered a breakfast 'Slam-Bang Special'."

"Lucky Burley."

At a few minutes before two in the morning the truck stop was still marginally busy but fairly quiet. Most of the people there were more interested in eating than in talking at this hour. He could hear the clink of glassware, the rattle of silverware against dishes. And then, a familiar voice among the background noises.

"You did good."

"Is that Dean Winchester?" McGee asked. "It's not Sam."

"It's Dean."

"I know," Krissy Chambers replied, smug.

"Did you keep an eye on Ziva like I told you?"

"She didn't do anything." Krissy's voice was bored, dismissive.

"Yeah, well, I wish you'd gotten a chance to see her in action. I've seen her file. Ziva's what you're gonna be when you grow up."

"And is Gibbs what you're gonna be when you grow up?"

"Who said I was gonna grow up?"

"Sam's not there," Tony said, when no smart remark was forthcoming. "No way he'd let a statement like that slide."

"Okay," McGee said. "We're getting visuals from Stan's camera now. You're right, no Sam. It's Dean Winchester, Jimmy Novak and the two girls."

"Feds were good at the stealth stuff," Josephine Barnes observed. "I lost 'em right after they came into the park. Didn't have any idea where they were until they jumped out behind that guy."

"Yeah, well, Gibbs is ex-Marine, like my dad. Ziva trained as Mossad. Tony calls her his ninja. They'd be kick-ass Hunters, if they were Hunters."

"So why don't we recruit them?" Krissy sounded exasperated. "I still don't understand why we have to be so secretive about everything! Let them see what's really out there. They can help. They could at least stop trying to throw you in jail for risking your life to save them."

"Krissy," Dean said. "Sweetheart." Tony could hear his smile. "You're such a pain in the ass. You know that? Did you see that guy tonight? See what he was going to do to that woman? Had _already_ done to three other women. Human evil. That's their job, and it's one I don't envy them."

"But -"

"We do what we do and we shut up about it." Dean sounded more tired than angry. "Gibbs has rules, you know? A bunch of them. He has them numbered. My dad had rules too, but only a few. Four or five, maybe? Take care of your brother, Dean. Do as you're told. Don't talk back. We do what we do and we shut up about it."

"Don't you think you're old enough to have your own rules now, Dean?" Krissy's voice was almost gentle.

"Oh, I do. I have two. One: Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole. And two: Don't touch my pie."

"So what do you do now?" Josephine asked.

Dean sighed. "Damned if I know. I'm looking for an end game, but I'm just not seeing it. I'd imagine Crowley's pretty much given up on the whole 'getting Gibbs to shoot the Winchesters' scheme and moved on. But he's left behind a couple of demons who've got a har -" He interrupted himself with a forced bout of coughing. "Who've got a strong desire for revenge," he finished.

"Who've got a _hard on_ for revenge, you mean?" Krissy asked, sounding smug and superior. "Old guys are so cute when they're being prudes, aren't they, Josie?"

"You know, I'm starting to understand why my dad was pissed off so much when I was your age. Anyway, we'll think of something. We always do. Hopefully, being 'Garthed' has killed the whole 'let's play Hunter' thing. Sam and I'll take a good look around, though, make sure there's nothing too dangerous in their way, just in case."

"There's a kelpie, in a creek outside of Annapolis," Josephine offered.

"Nah, that's done," Dean said. "Garth got that one, last fall. What do you think of Garth, by the way?"

The girls both giggled. "You're right," Krissy said. "He grows on you. He's trying to be Bobby, you know? He puts on that cap and says, 'balls!' and you just want to hug him and maybe pinch his cheek or pat his head."

"Big shoes," Dean said. His voice was rough and Tony could hear the ragged edges of old grief. He thought again how ironic it was that Dean Winchester was widely believed to be a psychopath, incapable of feelings.

"Yeah, well, don't you go leaving any empty biker boots lying around," Krissy said.

"Who, me? I'm invincible. Haven't you heard? I'm Batman."

"You're certainly bat-something."

"Cute. Okay, so, it's getting late and we need to get back. I left Sasquatch holding down the fort by himself. You ladies don't try to drive too far tonight, okay? Get a motel room. You got enough money?"

"We're good," Krissy assured him.

"Josie, I hear you're taking your SAT's next week. Don't freak about it. You're gonna do awesome. Krissy," he sighed again, "you try not to grow up so fast. I swear, you get more obnoxious every time I see you."

McGee's voice sounded again in Tony's ear. "They're all standing up now. Dean's hugging the girls. Krissy kissed him on the cheek."

"Don't you get caught or I'll have to come kick your old-guy ass."

A deep voice spoke, one Tony hadn't heard before, at least not clearly enough to understand. "Dean is right, Josephine. You will do well on your test Wednesday. You have a natural gift for knowledge and you have nurtured it well. There is no cause for anxiety. And Krissy, do please be careful. Dean would not say so in so many words, but he would be devastated if something happened to you."

"Jeez, Cas!" Dean's voice. "Have you been watching the Hallmark Channel again? Say goodbye, Michael Landon. We're leaving now."

"Goodbye Michael Landon," Novak parroted uncertainly. His voice was fading as he moved away from where the mike was focused. "Dean, I do not understand that reference."

"Gosh," McGee said. "I was expecting him to say, 'bless you my child'."

"That's priests, not angels. What's going on?"

"Winchester and Novak are moving towards the back of the building. Looks like they're planning to go out through the kitchen. The girls are leaving by the front door."

"I see them," Tony reported. "Are we stopping them?"

"Negative. Gibbs says let them go. We've got NCIS, FBI, CIA, Homeland Security and a S.W.A.T. team surrounding the building. We'll move on Winchester and Novak when they come out. Try to keep as many civilians as possible out of it. We've got an infrared of them on satellite. They've entered the kitchen. Okay, we've temporarily lost them among the heat from the ovens and fryers. We'll pick them up again when they move away from the cooking implements. Should be soon . . . any second now . . . ."

Five minutes later, Tony and Stan Burley were going through the kitchen door together, Tony high and Stan low. A S.W.A.T. team came in from the back at the same time. At first the room seemed empty. On closer inspection, it continued to seem empty. The teams from all the various agencies moved in, but a thorough search of the truck stop, including all the vehicles in the lot, yielded nothing.

"This is ridiculous," McGee ranted. "How did they get out of the building? Where could they have gone?"

"I don't know, McDoubting Thomas," Tony snarked back. "Maybe they left by Angel Air."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"So whadda we got?" Dean asked Sam.

"In the immediate area right now I'm only seeing one hunt that looks dangerous." He slid the laptop over so his brother could look at his research.

"Well, crap! Another one? You go years without seeing one of these and then we get two in six months?"

"Yeah, I don't think it's a coincidence. Fred Burton's Reptilapalooza passed through here two-and-a-half years ago, just before the first death."

Dean swore. "That jackass! If he hadn't already gotten himself killed, I'd have half a mind to gank his stupid ass myself."

"At least we know what to expect. When do you want to go after this thing?"

"Tonight, after we get some sleep? The sooner we get rid of it, the better, even if NCIS doesn't decide to go Hunting again."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"There was a trap door hidden between the stove and the fryer. It's an old building. The basement was a Prohibition-era speakeasy, with a tunnel leading to the garage next door. The employees on duty last night didn't know about it. The owner did, but he was keeping it a secret because he didn't want his wife to find the stash of gay porn he was hiding down there." Tony raised his eyebrows, spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "Guy swears he never met the Winchesters and has no idea how they found out about his hidey-hole. Looks to me like he's telling the truth."

"DiNozzo found the trap door," Stan Burley offered credit generously. "I never would have seen it."

"Well, Tony does have a nose for porn," McGee observed.

Tony made a face. "Not _this_ porn."

"Are you sure? You _did_ kiss that transvestite that time."

"Shut up, McGoober."

"I'll have you know, Little Miss Prankster has given up. I haven't had any trouble with my computer for days now." Radiating smug, McGee dropped into his chair. It crunched. He frowned. "What the . . . ?"

"So what do we do now?" Burley asked. "Plan B?"

"That _was_ Plan B," Ziva told him.

"Now we go to Plan C," Gibbs said, coming in and dropping a stack of file folders on his desk. "What _are_ you doing, McGee?"

They all turned to look at McGee, who was down on his knees beside his desk chair, poking at the vinyl with his finger. He gave them a sad, bewildered look.

"Somebody took all the stuffing out of my chair," he said. "I think they filled it up with peanut shells."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Somewhere down along the creek, y'think?"

"We know hydras like water. If there's a swampy, marshy area, that's going to be our best bet. The Lernaean hydra was found in the swamps near Argolis. That's the earliest lore we have, and the biggest one ever reported."

"Yeah, well, just tell me this bitch doesn't have nine heads. 'Cause the two that the last one had was two too many."

Sam took a minute to answer, planting his feet carefully on the wooded slope as the two brothers made their way down to the creek bed. "Most of the reports say two. A couple of people have claimed it had three, but they were pretty hysterical. I doubt there's more than three, though."

The Lernaean Hydra, according to lore, had been a child of Echidna, who was known as the Mother of All Monsters and who was probably an ancient version of Eve. It had lived in the swamps of Lernaea, where it guarded a gateway to Hades, until it was killed by Herakles as his second labor. The method used by Herakles, with the assistance of his nephew Iolaos, was the same one Hunters used today, but modern heroes generally beheaded their hydras with machetes instead of swords and cauterized the neck stumps with acetylene torches.

"You hot?"

There was a faint hiss and then a "whoosh" as Sam lit the torch he was carrying. He had the canister of fuel strapped to his back, torch in one hand, blade in the other. Dean was carrying their sharpest machete. Hydras were at least semi-sentient. It would avoid the fire, attacking Dean and attempting to get to Sam's back.

It was the wee hours of the morning and they were far enough inside the park to avoid detection from anyone who happened to be passing by. Both men wore miners' helmets with battery-operated lights. Dean reached over and snapped Sam's on for him, then turned on his own as he took his place at his brother's back. The hydra could see in the dark, could smell them and could feel the vibration of their footsteps through the earth. There was nothing to be gained by walking in darkness.

The torch cast a red glow over the creek, an overhang of tree branches making it seem like a living cave. It was still and quiet, too quiet with none of the normal sounds of a busy night in the woods. The crickets were silent, nocturnal animals cowering in their lairs, holding their breaths in the presence of supernatural evil.

It was Dean, his senses still sharp from his time in Purgatory, who caught the dry rattle of snakes' scales through grass. "Hsst. I hear something."

A sinuous form writhed and slithered around them, keeping to the edge of the light, and entered the creek with a soft _plop_. "Dean?" Sam asked, trying to scan 360 degrees all at once.

"It's gone in the creek. Figures being wet will help protect it from the torch, maybe?"

Dean shifted his machete into a one-handed grip, pulled a flashlight from his belt and added its light to the scene. At the edge of the water there grew a stand of young rushes and cattails. They moved and brushed against each other in the night breeze, but two of the stalks moved independent of the wind. He shone his light directly on them and four eyes reflected back the glare.

"It's here."

The hydra lunged forward, striking at him with both heads at once. Dean took the left-most head off cleanly, deflecting the other as Sam spun around to his left flank and cauterized the stump. Moving back to remove the second head, Dean didn't see the third until it was too late and the fangs had sunk into his right arm. The hydra released him with a victorious hiss and reared back to strike again, but Sam stepped in, decapitating and burning it before Dean could even speak.

"Damn," Sam said. "It had three heads after all." He dragged the body up on the end of his machete and stretched it out along the grass. "The third head splits from the other two farther back on the body. That must be one of the original heads. Someone cut off the second head at some point but didn't cauterize it and it regenerated two heads on that neck."

"Yeah, must have," Dean agreed, forcing his voice to remain normal. Under the cover of darkness he slid the sleeve of his flannel down and buttoned the cuff. Sam hadn't seen that he'd been bitten or he'd have been freaking out by now. No need of that. At this point there was nothing they could do about it. He sent up a silent prayer. _Cas, buddy, I hope you've got your ears on. I need you now. I need you bad. You don't make it here by sunrise, you're going to either have to Lazarus me again or finish this rodeo without me._

Sam dragged the body over onto a rocky, sandy ledge, sprinkled it with salt and used the torch to burn it. When it was well and truly incinerated, he doused the remains with creek water and they headed back to where they'd left the Impala.

The sky in the east was beginning to lighten perceptibly and there was still no sign of Cas when they stepped into the clearing where they'd parked and found it empty.

"Sam," Dean's voice was dangerous, "where's my car?" The prospect of impending death did not faze Dean Winchester, but finding his car missing induced instant panic. "This is where we left it. Isn't this where we left it? Dude! Where the hell's my car?"

"That tree was a no-parking zone," a new voice said.

The foliage around them rustled and shifted and a small horde of bodies melted out of the darkness. Teams in riot gear moved in behind them, weapons at the ready, closing off all avenues of retreat, but Leroy Jethro Gibbs, at the center of the crowd and clearly in command, hadn't even bothered to draw his gun.

Tony DiNozzo, likewise unarmed, stepped up behind them and put a friendly hand on Dean's shoulder even as Ziva and McGee closed in on Sam.

"I'm afraid your car got towed," Gibbs said, grinning hugely. "But, hey! Don't worry! We'll be more than happy to give you a lift."

. . . .

Author's Note number two: I have to give a nod to DinaLori, who nailed the "vampire" almost exactly. (It was a Shop Vac, no a Hoover.)


	14. Reality Bites

Author's Note: As always, thanks for all the lovely reviews, favorites, follows, and death threats. I'm writing as fast as I can, so please don't anyone die or develop ulcers! I actually don't cliffhanger you just to be evil, but I have to confess that it amuses me when you claim that I am. I went around all day at work yesterday going "Mua - ha - ha!" (I get the strangest looks sometimes . . . .)

A couple of people (hi, SkyHighFan and Dark-Supernatural-Angel!) have pointed out that, by using the girls in the last chapter, I completely screwed up the timeline of this story. (I mentioned the angel tablet in Chapter 3 - really shouldn't have, it has nothing to do with this - and haven't mentioned anything about the trials or their effect on Sam, and we didn't see Krissy again and meet Josephine and Aiden until after the boys found the tablet and started the trials.) At this point, I think the best I can do is apologize and ask you to just consider this a random story with no set timeline. Sorry! (I had fun writing Krissy and Josephine in, though.)

This is a chapter I've been looking forward to since I started this story, so I hope you'll enjoy.

Disclaimer: I have never sent any politicians ricin, but if I could get hold of hair and fingernail clippings, I might well make me some voodoo dolls.

. . . .

Chapter 14: Reality Bites

. . .

"Plan C," Gibbs had said.

Setting it up had led them up to MTAC, where representatives from the other agencies they were working with had joined them.

"I still fail to see why even the Winchesters should find anything supernatural in people dying from snakebites in the woods," Trent Kort said. He was fresh back from searching the truck stop and all snarling annoyance and bitter sarcasm.

McGee had expressed the same reservations at one time, but he was the one who now spoke up to refute them. He would _not_ go on record as agreeing with Trent Kort about anything.

"It's stranger than you think," he said, echoing Abby. "In the past two years there have been eight deaths from snakebite in that one park. While it's true that, worldwide, hundreds of thousands of people die from snakebite every year, in the United States it's almost unheard of. In the U.S., an average of only six people a year die from snakebite. More people die of dog bites than die of snakebite and more people die of _lightning strikes_ than die of dog bites, spider bites, and snakebites combined."

"Most of the people who do get bitten by snakes are bitten while trying to kill them," Abby put in. "That, or while handling them as pets or as part of religious ceremonies. Experts estimate that 25% to 50% of all bites are dry bites - no venom. And, in the cases that do result in death, there is usually some special circumstance. The victim might be a child, or elderly, or in poor health. Some people are allergic to snake venom just as some are allergic to bee stings, and occasionally someone who's been bitten by a snake will die of anaphylactic shock. Also, death can sometimes result from complications of the bite, like if they don't seek treatment and it gets infected."

"And the victims in Rock Creek Park?" Gibbs asked.

"The youngest was a four-year-old girl, the oldest a man in his fifties. Five of them were healthy adults with no known medical conditions that would contribute to their deaths. All died as a direct result of the venom, which hasn't been positively identified. It's odd enough that the CDC has been looking into it. They haven't had any more luck identifying the venom than anyone else. The best they can come up with is that it seems to be a species of cobra."

"And how is this going to lead us to the Winchesters?" Fornell asked. "Not saying it won't, but how?"

Gibbs nodded to his computer expert. "McGee?"

"I've set up satellite surveillance of Rock Creek Park, visual and infrared. We have six teams on stand-by at all times and undercover agents stationed in the park itself. We're watching for the Impala, but if they approach using other means, we're also set to go if we see any activity taking place in the more remote areas of the park. Now we just wait."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"We'll be more than happy to give you a ride," Gibbs grinned.

The Winchesters both slumped.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean said, tossing his machete to the ground as Tony came up next to him. He sounded more tired and resigned than angry. He gave DiNozzo a hurt, betrayed look. "You towed my Baby? I mean, arresting me, yeah, I expect that. But you towed my _car_!"

"Don't worry," Tony said, patting him down and relieving him of two guns and four knives. "We trailered her. Very gently." He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and clipped them around Dean's wrists.

"You're cuffing his hands in front of him?" Kort growled nearby. "Are you trying to make it easy for him to escape again?"

Tony shot Dean a look. "Would it make it harder for you to pick these if I put them behind you?"

"Well . . . no," Dean admitted. "Prob'ly make it easier. You couldn't see what I was doing"

"Cute. But I'm riding with Dean-O here." The Brit shot the elder Winchester a one-eyed glare. "So don't even think about trying anything."

"Gosh," Dean drawled. "You scare me any more and I'm apt to soil my tightie-whities."

The S.W.A.T. teams surrounding them didn't have high enough security clearance to know the truth about the Winchesters, so they merely stared in stony silence, thinking they'd captured two dangerous and ruthless men. The N.C.I.S. team, though, snickered at Dean's statement.

"Do you wear tightie-whities, then?" Ziva asked conversationally. She and McGee had searched and secured Sam in the same manner as his brother and were flanking him now. "Because Abby and I _had_ wondered."

The multitude of flashlights and searchlights that now lit the clearing did nothing to compete with the brilliance of the lady-killer grin Dean sent her way. Tony bit down on a tiny spike of jealousy.

A small armada of vehicles from the various agencies pulled up around them. As they separated the brothers, McGee and Ziva taking Sam to one of the NCIS sedans while Tony moved Dean towards Gibbs' Dodge Challenger, Dean caught Tony in the ribs with a light jolt of his elbow.

"Dude," he hissed in DiNozzo's ear. "_Marry_ that girl!"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Even at the ungodly hour of five AM, it was an energetic Tony DiNozzo who entered the interrogation room where Dean Winchester sat alone at the table, his still-cuffed hands folded loosely in his lap. He dropped into a chair opposite the recent fugitive and slapped a file folder down on the table between them.

"I have got _so_ many questions for you!" he said. He pulled an 8 x 12 glossy photograph out of his folder and slid it across the table. "Tara Benchley? Seriously?"

Dean tipped his head to study the picture, a photo of him posing with the actress. A faint smile ghosted across his face. He looked tired, his features tight with fatigue and . . . something else.

"She had this photo in an online album. Abby found it. I used it as an excuse to call her. Tara, not Abby. She remembers you, you know. She says you were 'a hell of a PA'."

Dean smiled a tiny, private smile, tipped his head and lifted one shoulder but didn't comment.

"And this," Tony continued, pulling a remote from his pocket and clicking the TV in the corner on. "Not only do you save the world by taking out those creeps at SucroCorp, but you also lead the forces of Moondor to victory. Not that you could lose when you're going with the speech from Braveheart for motivation." He leaned over the table to confide. "Don't tell McGee I said this, because LARPing is really more the sort of thing he'd be likely to do and I would _totally_ ridicule him mercilessly if I ever caught him, but that looked really _cool_."

Again the smile that was at least half grimace. "Yeah, they edited out the guy with the frisbee."

Tony settled back into his seat, looked down at his file folder and turned a couple more pages. "So what did you do to your arm?" he asked, not looking up but watching out of the corner of his eye.

"I don't know what you mean," Dean said easily.

Tony closed the folder with a snap. "Damn! You're _good_! I swear, you don't have _any_ tells. And I've been doing this," he waved a finger between them, indicating the interrogation, "for a _long_ time. I can tell. I can always tell. But there is absolutely nothing about your behavior or your body language to suggest you're lying."

"Why do you think I am, then?" Dean asked.

"Because you've been guarding your arm since we caught you. Because you're still cuffed, even with the cuffs in front of you and a bent paper clip hidden inside the waistband of your jeans. Besides, I saw you flinch earlier, in the car, when that jackass Kort bumped into you."

"Yeah, I don't think he liked Gibbs' driving. And I get the feeling you guys don't like Kort."

"I'm about 98% certain he's the one who put a bomb in my '66 Mustang. And no changing the subject."

The door opened and Gibbs came in carrying a holder with three cups of coffee.

"You brought coffee?" Dean asked. "And here I was expecting you to be 'bad cop'."

"There is no such thing in the world as a bad cop," Tony said virtuously.

"Paraphrasing Father Flanagan? Really?"

"Hey! Boy's Town was a classic. Spencer Tracy won an Oscar for that role, you know."

Gibbs went around behind Dean and leaned down so his mouth was close to the other man's ear.

"What's it going to take to get you to answer DiNozzo's question?" he asked. "Because I've got a Dad voice and I've got a Marine voice and I can pull either one of those out any time."

"You mean there's a difference?"

"There is with me, yeah."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"How long until sunrise?"

The two agents glanced at one another. Tony frowned.

"A little over an hour. Hour and five minutes? Maybe ten? Why?"

Winchester's throat worked as he swallowed. He was still looking at Tony, but not seeing him now, gaze turned inward. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and rough and carried regret and resignation and some deeper emotion.

"Give me the Marine, Gibbs," he breathed. "One more time, for old-time's sake."

Gibbs straightened and barked out, "I gave you an order, Mister! And when I give an order I expect it to be obeyed and I mean _now!_ Do you understand me?"

Winchester smiled, eyes misting over a little. "You sound just like him." The two agents remained still, watching him expectantly, and he sighed and held out his cuffed hands to Tony. "There ain't a damned thing you can do," he said.

Tony unlocked the cuffs and Dean shrugged the flannel shirt off his left shoulder, then allowed them to help him ease it off his right arm.

Gibbs swore, creatively and with feeling.

"Snakebite," Tony said. He got on his phone to summon Ducky and Palmer with a gurney.

The bite was swollen, red and puffy with black streaks beginning to shoot away from the twin punctures at the center.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Gibbs demanded. "And can the 'you wouldn't believe me if I told you' crap!"

"Yeah, but you really wouldn't," Dean said reasonably.

Gibbs got right in his face and _growled_, "try me!"

Winchester sighed. "It's not a snakebite. Or not a normal snakebite. It's a hydra bite. Antivenin won't do any good without a certain ritual that has to be performed before the first sunrise after the person is bitten."

"Well, we can at least try antivenin. And I can't promise that I can make the ritual happen, but I will see what I can do."

"You'd do that? Seriously?" Dean gave the senior agent a doubting frown.

"I see it as a kind of religious belief. We do try to honor those around here."

"Huh." Dean thought about it, nodded. "You know, you're a pretty good guy, for a cop. And DiNozzo's edging into 'downright cool' territory. But there really _isn't_ anything you can do. The ritual calls for a potion. One of the ingredients is hydra venom and the only way to get hydra venom is to milk a live hydra. I got bitten by the last head, just seconds before Sammy chopped it off and torched the stump."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"McGee," Ziva said, stopping him in the hall outside the interrogation room where Sam Winchester waited. "There is a man here claiming to be the Winchesters' lawyer."

"That's not possible," McGee said. "We haven't let either of them make a call yet. No one should even know they're here." He considered it. "I suppose it could be one of their Hunter friends. Maybe someone with a contact in one of the agencies we're working with?"

"Mm. That or one of the surviving members of the SucroCorp conspiracy," Ziva said. "We know they had infiltrated the government at many levels. They would have good reason to want to keep us from questioning the Winchesters."

"How? By helping them escape? Or killing them? It would be a suicide mission if they did."

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Yes, and we know _that_ never happens."

"Anyone run the guy's credentials?"

"Of course, and they are impeccable. Maybe too impeccable. Abby suspects a really top-notch job of computer hacking. And I've had him searched, but we found nothing. What shall we do?"

"Let's let him see Sam. We'll watch Sam's reaction to him. And we can keep an eye on them from observation. It's not like we're looking for anything we could use in court anyway."

Ziva left and returned shortly with a stocky, bearded man in an ill-fitting suit. They arrived just in time to meet Abby, coming from the other direction with two vials of blood in her hand. Abby's lab coat hung open, exposing her outfit of a pink-plaid-and-skull-themed mini skirt paired with a tight black tee that read, "I LOVED VAMPIRES BEFORE THEY WERE SPARKLY".

The stranger gave her a slow, charming smile that crinkled his eyes and warmed his whole expression. "My God, but you are a beautiful woman!" he drawled. "Have I fallen back in time? Because I did not think goddesses walked this earth anymore, but surely such an exquisite creature as you cannot be a mere mortal."

McGee rolled his eyes.

Abby pulled herself up to her full height and her face lit up. "My mama told me all about sweet-talking Cajun boys," she said.

"Really? What'd she tell you 'bout 'em?"

She grinned a wicked grin. "Not to let 'em get away."

"Excuse me," McGee said firmly, not too terribly amused, "but if you'll step this way, Sam Winchester is right in here."

The stranger hesitated. "I was really hoping to talk to Dean."

"Well, I'm afraid that's not going to be possible. Dean Winchester is down in the morgue."

The man moved so fast that McGee didn't even see the motion. One minute he was standing in the hallway and the next he was pinned to the wall, held by the lapels of his jacket with his feet dangling a good six inches off the floor.

"What?" the man demanded, ignoring Ziva's barked commands and completely indifferent to the gun she had to his head.

The door to the interrogation room, which should have been locked to anyone on the inside, opened and Sam Winchester, freed of his handcuffs, stuck his head out. "What's going on - Benny?"

"Dean's dead?" Benny asked, turning a grief-stricken face to the younger brother.

"What?" Sam demanded, looking between the agents.

"He's not dead!" McGee said. "Can you put me down, please?"

Benny lowered McGee, brushed his suit off absently and stepped back. "You just said. You said he was in the morgue."

"In the morgue, yes, but he's not dead."

"It's okay," Abby said reassuringly. "Ducky and Jimmy are medical doctors. We took him down there so they can take care of him."

"Why does Dean need taking care of?" Sam asked.

"He got bitten by that snake you killed," Ziva said.

"Damn it!" Sam spun and slammed his fist into the door. "That jackass! Why didn't he tell me?"

"Please don't assault the building," McGee said, and then, to Benny, "and you, please don't assault the . . . me . . . any more."

"I want to see my brother."

"Sam, I need to talk to you."

"I've got nothing to say to you. I want to see my brother."

Benny stepped close to the larger man, lowered his voice to an urgent growl. "Sam,_ Cas_ sent me. I _need_ to talk to you."

Sam froze for a second, looked around at all of them in the hallway, then got Benny by the shoulder and dragged him into the interrogation room. "Excuse us," he said, and slammed the door in their faces.

"What the -?" McGee huffed, feeling disgruntled. "When did the prisoners take over NCIS?"

Abby smirked. "When you arrested the Winchesters." She brandished her blood samples. "Got to go. Let me know if anything interesting happens. And tell Benny I said 'bye'."

"Yeah, I think you should avoid this Benny character," McGee called after her as she walked away. "After all, if he's friends with the Winchesters, there's no telling what he is. He could be a . . . a vampire, for all you know!"

She paused and turned back, considering, then smiled a beatific smile. "Oooh! A Cajun vampire. _That_ would be _cool_!"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

"I get that you're pissed," Dean said. "And I get why you're pissed. But, seriously, I think you're just wasting your time."

"He made up a character based on me. He practically gave it my name. No one who knows me can _not_ think it's me. And he said that it's a _necrophiliac_! Now people think that _I'm_ a necrophiliac." The assistant medical examiner had been scowling and slamming things around since a delighted Dean Winchester greeted him as Pimmy Jalmer. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to have people write a story about you in which you do sick, twisted, sexually depraved things?"

His back was turned to the fallen Hunter, so he didn't see the rueful smile that flitted across the man's face.

"You might be surprised," Dean murmured. "Anyway, I'm just saying that anger is a waste of energy. Don't get mad. Get even."

Palmer came back over beside the gurney where Dean rested and set a basin of cool water on a rolling stand next to him. "Get even how?" he asked, wringing out a cool cloth and bathing the other man's forehead. They had cleaned, drained, and dressed the bite wound, but the dark streaks were still spreading and Dean had begun to spike a fever.

"Well, there's always the classics. Itching powder in his shorts, dip his hand in warm water when he's sleeping, put Nair in his shampoo, super-glue him to something . . . ."

"Yeah," Jimmy lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "But that's more the sort of stuff that Tony does to him."

"Yeah, I guess it would be, wouldn't it? Listen, I only got about half an hour, but I'll see what I can come up with. And if we don't come up with anything in time, you ask Sam to help you later. Tell him I told you to."

"You're not going to die," Jimmy admonished. "Abby's running blood tests now to determine what kind of antivenin we need to give you. We've already got a broad-spectrum antivenin on the way over from Bethesda and we're working on getting you moved over into the critical-care unit there. Frankly, we'd have you there already, but the CIA is being difficult. I gather Trent Kort is just positive the snakebite is a trick to help you escape again."

"Kort's an ass, isn't he? Tell me something - did he really put a bomb in DiNozzo's car?"

"Probably. Someone did. Let me tell you, I will never forget walking up to that bombed out car, with the burned body in the front seat, thinking it was Tony. You know, it was _hours_ before we knew he was still alive?"

"So who was in the car?"

"Bad guy. Long story."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, shifted a bit. "I don't really have time for long stories. So let's get back to what you're gonna do to McGee."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

"You've doubtless heard of the 'placebo effect'," Ducky said. He an Gibbs were at the other end of autopsy, talking quietly while Jimmy Palmer worked with Dean.

"I've seen it used in combat. Medic ran out of morphine. Told the wounded he had this other drug he wasn't supposed to be carrying - really powerful stuff but not approved by the USDA. Said he got it on the black market. So he gives it to them. Men in agony. Guys with gaping shrapnel wounds, broken bones, a missing limb in one case. Completely took away the pain. Made some of 'em loopy. Knocked most of 'em out. Kept them on it until we got them back to a M.A.S.H. unit. I was all geared up to help cover for him with the whole 'black market drug' thing when he told me what he really gave them: Sugar pills."

"Yes, it's a well-documented phenomenon. It's not just a matter of overcoming pain. Belief is a powerful thing, with real, concrete physiological ramifications. It can shrink tumors, dilate blood vessels, heal damaged tissue. Unfortunately, the placebo effect has an evil twin - the nocebo effect. If you give someone an inert substance, but convince them it is something harmful, it will harm them. Making them think that water is alcohol will get them drunk on it. And if you ask any emergency room physician or surgeon or paramedic, they will tell you that patients who are convinced that they are going to die almost invariably do."

"Dean believes he's going to die come sunrise unless we pull off this ritual thing," Gibbs said.

"I hate to say it, but the odds are that Dean is right."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Search teams found the remains of the snake in question," Abby said. "I was hoping that examining it would help me identify it and come up with an antivenin. Unfortunately, the Winchesters," she sighed and held up an evidence bag, "salted and burned the body."

"You must have something, Abs."

"Charcoal, Gibbs. I have charcoal. There are some things I can tell you about this, but nothing good. First, just so you know, while none of the individual details about this snake are that outlandish, the fact that they all apply to a single animal means we're approaching the point where 'it's supernatural' becomes the simple, sensible explanation."

"Give me what you've got, and make it fast. We're running out of time."

"It was a big snake - I make it slightly over sixteen feet long - and definitely poisonous. I can tell that from the structure of one of the skulls that survived the fire."

"Okay, wait. _One_ of the skulls? And _sixteen_ feet long?"

"You heard me right, my Silver Fox. First, the size. Sixteen feet long, plus the fact that the venom is obviously a form of cobra venom - it's a neurotoxin, deadlier than a pit viper, less deadly than a sea snake - suggests that we're dealing with a hamadryad - a King Cobra. The males can grow up to eighteen feet in length and the longest on record is 24 feet long. It's the world's largest venomous snake. However, there are elements to the venom that suggest it's not a _pure_ King Cobra."

"Meaning?"

"You know how people like to cross dog breeds to come up with 'designer dogs'? Like, they cross a yorkie and a poodle and call it a yorkiepoo?"

"Yeah, we used to have designer dogs all the time when I was kid. Only we called them mutts. Are you saying that it's possible to crossbreed cobras?"

"It's possible. Very strongly discouraged, but possible. The problem is that crossbreeding venomous snakes tends to create 'mutts' that are genetically unstable. You can wind up with strange, hybrid venom; nasty, unstable personalities; and birth defects - which would explain the three heads."

"And it really had three heads?"

"It did. Two-headed snakes are rare enough to be a curiosity, but not unheard of. Just search YouTube and I guarantee you'll find videos. Three heads is extremely rare, but not outside the bounds of possibility. Basically, what we're looking at is conjoined triplets. For it to have been born is rare. For it to have survived at all is rare. For it to have survived long enough to grow to be sixteen feet long is _incredible_. This is not something that happened in the wild."

"Someone bred this thing?"

"Had to have. You can't keep a cobra as a pet in the United States. It's not legal. Not even if you remove the fangs or venom gland - both things that are considered inhumane treatment of the snake. Thus, most cobras in this country are found in zoos, menageries and private reptile shows. That and universities. Places that have to have special licenses to own them. Still, if you have enough money and you're determined enough, it's possible to get almost anything on the black market."

Gibbs sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"How's Dean?" Abby asked.

"Not good. He believes he was bitten by a hydra and that he'll die unless someone - Sam - performs a special ritual before sunrise. Ducky's pumped him full of antivenin and we're making arrangements to move him to a secure ICU room at Bethesda, but he's going downhill fast."

"Well, why don't we just let Sam do the ritual then?"

"We can't. It requires a potion made from 'hydra venom' and, with the snake dead, there's no way to get any."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"Benny, what are you doing here? And where the hell's Cas? If Dean's been bitten by the hydra, Cas is pretty much the only one who can help him now."

"You gon' let me get a word in edgewise?"

Sam forced himself to stop pacing and sat at the table, glaring at the vampire on the other side. He didn't trust Benny, friend of Dean's or not, and couldn't bring himself to speak civilly to him. Rather than lash out, he bit down on his annoyance and gestured, with a curt nod and a wave of his hand, for the creature to speak.

"Cas sent me," Benny said again. "Got in touch with your friend Garth, who got in touch with a lady named Charlie, who did some hoo-hah or rather with the computer to make 'em think I'm your lawyer."

"They know you're not a lawyer, Benny. We haven't called a lawyer." Sam sighed to think his brother's life could hinge on a plot cooked up by two humans and two supernatural beings, _none_ of whom had a firm grasp on reality. They should have put Krissy in charge. Or even Mr. Fizzles. "Get to the point."

"Dean's been praying for Cas. Probably started soon's he got bit. But Cas can't come. They's angel wards up in this building."

"What?" Sam cursed. "There was a demon. Dean and I exorcised it from a distance. It must have been sent by Crowley. I'll bet that's the whole reason it was in here."

"When was dis?"

"Back at the beginning, right after all this started. The same day we circled the building in iron. Why?"

"'Cause dat demon ain't your problem. Leastways not all of it. Cas says these wards are fresh. Some of 'em are no more'n a few hours old. They was at the park, too. At least two people was carryin' 'em, plus they was on some of these folks' vehicles."

Sam closed his eyes, put his head in his hands. "Do you know how long we've got until sunrise?"

"I'm a vampire, Sam. I _always_ know how long we've got until sunrise. I make it twelve minutes and counting."

. . . .

Author's note two: So, two updates in one weekend! Just don't get spoiled. This is _not_ likely to happen again. Real life is bound to catch up to me and demand that I stop ignoring it, and it's apt to do so sooner rather than later. Besides, I've ended on another cliffhanger and I want to give everyone time to enjoy the suspense. :) Seriously, I will update as soon as I can, but no promises when and it's quite likely it won't be for another week or so. Thanks for reading and please don't anyone die in the meantime!


	15. The Righteous Brothers

Author's Note: Thanks again to everyone for all the reviews, favorites, follows and assorted threats. I really didn't mean to torture anyone. I do hope that no one really died or developed an ulcer or anything else anyone threatened to do while waiting for this chapter. And, just for the record, I don't change diapers. :-/ Also, I never mind when someone points out a blooper. In the last chapter, I do know the difference between the USDA and the FDA. Sometimes I just get in a hurry and type the wrong thing without thinking about it. I'll go back when the story's done and try to fix all those sorts of things. In the meantime, thanks for the heads up!

Sorry to have made you all wait a whole week for the end to the cliffhanger. Here it is and I hope you'll find it was worth the wait.

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor nor a chemist. If you get bitten by a hydra, please seek medical help at once, and don't try anything you read in this chapter at home.

. . .

Chapter 15: The Righteous Brothers

. . .

Sam pushed back and rose to his feet. "Come on," he told Benny, "we're taking Dean and getting the hell out of here, one way or another."

"They gon' be shootin'," the vampire said. "You jus' let me take the bullets."

Before either could move towards the door it burst open and Abigail Scuito dashed in, Gibbs right behind her. She was already talking as she came through the door.

"Have you hunted a hydra before?" she demanded. "You have, haven't you?"

"What?" Sam blinked. "Uh, yeah, a few months ago."

"And when you were killing it, you used a blanket somehow, right? Threw it over the hydra's head or -?"

"I wrapped it around a stick, got the hydra to strike at that so Dean could get close enough to take the second head."

"I _knew_ it!" Abby said. "And then, when you rescued Tony, Dean wrapped him in that blanket." She held up an evidence bag with a square of rough fabric inside. "This is part of the blanket that's stained with venom. Is it enough for you to do your ritual?"

"Yeah!" Sam said. "You're going to let me do the healing?"

"We honor religious beliefs," Gibbs said. "What do you need for this ritual thing?"

"The venom was the only really exotic ingredient. Is the Impala here? I had a book bag full of supplies in the trunk, in case anyone else got bitten before we killed it. There's a copy of the ritual, candles, some herbs and seaweed, holy water, sea salt."

"Where in the trunk?" Abby demanded.

"The left side, it should be in plain sight. It's a canvas bag with a 'recycling' symbol on it."

"I'll get it and meet you down in autopsy," she said, and took off.

"I'll go help Miss Abby," Benny volunteered and ran off after her.

"Come on," Gibbs told Sam. "I'll take you to your brother."

"Dean's not doing well, is he?" Sam asked as they strode through the maze of corridors and entered the elevator.

"He could be doing better," Gibbs acknowledged. Sam noted that he pushed the button for the lowest level. "He's not going to die, though. Not on my watch. I won't allow it."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Dean lay back against the raised head of the gurney he rested on. He was running a fever that wouldn't break and both Ducky and Palmer were bathing his face, neck and torso with cool water while Tony DiNozzo leaned against the foot of the gurney and attempted to distract him. McGee and Ziva stood by, on guard, though Dean would be hard-pressed to say who they were guarding - him or Trent Kort, who lurked by the door and glared at Dean menacingly.

There were no windows in autopsy, but Dean could _feel_ dawn approaching. There was a weakness and lethargy to his limbs, a darkness beginning to creep in around the edges of his vision. They had, against his ardent protests, cut away his AC/DC tee shirt.

"Do you know how unusual it is to find something like that? In good condition and in my size, even. I felt like I won a prize when I found it."

"Those shirts aren't rare," McGee pointed out, puzzled. "You can buy them off the Internet."

"Dean doesn't buy his clothes online," Tony said, a chord of gentle understanding in his voice. "Where did you find it, Dean? Thrift shop? Flea market?"

"Yard sale. Yard sale in Muncie, Indiana." He shot the agent a glare. "Don't you feel bad for me. Don't pity me, man. I mean it. It's a sucky life, but it has its perks. Saving people, hunting things. Saving people. On a good day. If you're lucky."

"And on a bad day?"

"You don't talk about the bad days. On a good day, maybe you can be Batman."

The hydra venom burned through his veins and his skin was hypersensitive. The cool water felt like ice. The air on his damp chest was painful. He ignored the discomfort and focused on Tony, on making him understand one last thing.

"You gotta take care of my brother, man. You gotta promise me you're gonna take care of my brother. Don't let him do anything stupid. Tell him it's okay. Go find apple pie and I won't be mad this time."

"Apple pie?" Tony asked.

"He's delirious," Palmer said quietly, then yelped when Dean got him with a weak slap from his good arm.

"Not delirious. Sam'll understand."

"Well," Tony said, "I'm not promising you anything. So you'd better just stick around and take care of your responsibilities yourself."

Dean drew breath to respond, but before he could form words the door to autopsy slid open to admit Special Agent Gibbs, who was not so much escorting Sam Winchester as just striding along ahead of him and trusting him to follow. Gibbs stepped aside just inside the door and Sam crossed to his brother's side.

He leaned in close and spoke, his words for Dean's ears alone.

"I heard from Cas, man. He can't get in. Someone's put up angel wards. But it's gonna be okay. We've got hydra venom. We're gonna do the ritual. You're gonna be fine."

Dean peered at his brother suspiciously.

"Bullshit, Sam. Where'd you get hydra venom?"

"Remember the last hydra? When I decoyed it with the blanket? That was the same blanket you wrapped DiNozzo in. Abby gave me a square of it that's soaked with venom." He held up an evidence bag with a square of blanket material in it.

Dean blinked and struggled to focus on Sam and what he was saying and doing. He heard the door to autopsy slide open again and more voices. One of them sounded familiar, the cadence and the timbre, but the words were too soft to understand and Dean was too exhausted to try to place it.

Sam moved around him swiftly, drawing sigils on the floor of autopsy, Dean heard him speak.

"Put the candles at the points of the Aquarian star and light them. Then we'll need to turn out the lights, or at least most of them."

The M.E.'s had moved back to give Sam room and he was using one of their rolling tables for his ritual preparations. Dean turned his head and watched his brother work, memorizing the sight of him, just in case. Abby came up to help him. Dean recognized the canvas bag from the Impala's trunk in her hands.

"There's a bowl and a chalice in there," Sam said and Abby dug them out and handed them over. "Dried seaweed in a paper sack and a bunch of plastic baggies full of herbs."

"I don't suppose anyone thought to search that bag before handing it over to the completely unrestrained federal prisoner you've turned loose in a room full of potential weapons?" Trent Kort's snide, sarcastic voice sounded in the background.

"Can it, Kort," Gibbs said shortly. "My house, my call."

"I'll remind you of that when he decides to go Rambo on you."

"We need to crush these and mix them together in the bowl," Sam told Abby, ignoring the men in the background completely.

She helped him open the various bags, crumbling the dried herbs and seaweed into flakes and mixing them in the bowl. When they had added everything, Sam took a good pinch of it and dropped it in the chalice. Dean tried to remember what was in the mix. He'd only glanced at the ritual, leaving it up to his brother to collect the supplies.

Seaweed, he remembered. The hydra originated in ancient Greece and they still relied on ancient Greek medicine to combat its poison. Thyme, oregano, tarragon, mint.

"There's an amphoriskos of wine in there," Sam said.

Abby dug out the little pottery jar and handed it over. "It's beautiful," she said. Standing just under six inches high, it had a pointed base and a narrow neck with two looping handles. It was decorated in red figure style, with a scene depicting Herakles' battle with the original hydra.

Sam emptied it into the chalice, swirled it to mix it with the herbs and seaweed and then lifted Dean's head so he could drink. It was sweet and strong, the spices giving it an odd, musty taste.

To the rest of the spice and seaweed mixture, still in the bowl, Sam added sea salt for purification, because ancient Greece had been a seafaring nation, and holy water, because a little holy water never hurt. He mixed it with a small wooden spoon, consulted the written instructions again and went very still.

Dean, who was so attuned to his brother's moods that he could wake from a sound sleep because of the timbre of a single sigh, zeroed in on Sam's face and waited to find out what had gone wrong.

Sam looked up at him, eyes tragic. "Dean, it calls for blood from a righteous man."

Without a word, Dean held out his left arm.

"I had wondered about those scars," he heard Ducky say quietly, somewhere off to his right.

Sam folded a big hand around Dean's elbow, gently set his arm back on the gurney. "It won't work," he said. "I can't use your blood this time. It's tainted by the hydra venom."

"Well, damn," Dean said. "Cards're really stacked against me, aren't they?"

"Use your blood," Kort suggested facetiously in the background. "I'll come slit your wrist myself."

"If my blood would work, don't you think that I would?" Sam demanded angrily.

"Sam's a good man," Dean said as loud as he could. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry and his lungs weakening by the minute.

"But not a righteous one," this was Ducky again, understanding. "For religious and occult purposes, 'righteous' has a specific meaning. I remember a reference to it in the writings of Albertus Magnus, a 13th Century German Dominican friar. Roughly translated: 'He was a righteous man. Heaven had blessed him with a clarity of vision in matters of good and evil. His judgment was absolute. His compassion was without boundaries, his mercy was divine mercy, and his anger was the wrath of God.'"

Not for the first time, Dean wished he could have introduced Ducky and Bobby. If Gibbs and his agents would have made good Hunters, Ducky would have made a wonderful lore master.

"And, oh look! It's sunrise," Kort said with acid cheerfulness. "Guess you're too late. Can we end this farce now?"

"It's not sunrise," that was McGee's voice, sounding annoyed. "It's 'civil sunrise', when the sun appears to break the horizon, but that's an illusion caused by the Earth's atmosphere refracting the light. Sunrise is still a couple minutes away."

"And even then, it'll take between two and three minutes for the sun to completely rise," Abby added.

"Still, without a 'righteous man' to bleed . . . ."

"I notice you don't claim to be righteous," Tony said snidely.

Sam moved out of Dean's line of sight, or was moved away, and Gibbs appeared beside him. "Dean," he said, "am I a righteous man?"

Dean, used as he was to suspicion, derision, even downright hatred from authority figures, felt something inside him warm at the implications of the question. He answered in a rough voice. "Old man, you shouldn't have to bleed for me."

Gibbs' mouth drew into a thin line, corners turned down in annoyance. He rapped Dean twice on the top of his head with two fingers. "That isn't what I asked," he told him. "You're a righteous man. Your judgment's absolute. Judge me. Am I a righteous man?"

He gazed at the Hunter, eyes intense, and Dean looked back. He saw the Marine who had fought for his country, and the cop who fought for the Marines. He saw a brother, a partner, a mentor and a friend. He saw a husband and a father and a sniper on a Mexican hillside.

"Yeah, you are," he said. "Yeah, I do believe you are."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Tony stood back out of the way with Ziva and McGee and a strange, bearded man who had come in with Abby. Trent Kort stood by the door, scowling at them all and toying with his gun. The bearded man, Tony noticed, was dividing his attention between the Winchester brothers and Kort. Tony got the damnedest feeling that the guy was just itching to rip Kort's throat out.

Not that he would be the only one if he was, of course.

Her part in helping set up the ritual finished, Abby dropped back to join them. Gibbs took the scalpel Ducky handed him and offered his arm to Sam Winchester. Sam held out the bowl.

"Just a little will do," he said. "Thank you." His voice was deep with emotion.

Gibbs cut his arm and bled into the bowl, then stepped aside, allowing Palmer to bandage the small injury.

Sam dropped the square of venom-soaked blanket into the bowl and began chanting softly in a foreign language. He stirred the potion with the wooden spoon, then dipped his finger into it and swiftly began drawing lines and symbols on his brother's face and arms.

"Greek, I think," Ziva said softly. "A very ancient dialect, though."

Sam drew a sigil directly over the bite mark. Jimmy Palmer grimaced and opened his mouth, but closed it again when Ducky caught his eye and shook his head. Then Sam began singing, a Capella and slightly off-tune. Still, in the candle-lit autopsy lab, it was enough to send chills down Tony's spine.

"A hymn to Apollo, I think," Ziva frowned. "Why Apollo?"

"It could tie in with the whole sunrise thing," McGee offered. "Apollo was the sun god. The shining one. Patron of the arts and of medicine."

In the dim light the sigils on Dean Winchester's face and body began to emit a pale green glow.

"Now you're gonna explain to me how that's not supernatural, right?" Tony asked doubtfully.

"It's chemiluminescence," Abby said. "The seaweed probably had microscopic dinoflaggelates on it. There'd have been traces of luciferin and luciferase. The heat from Dean's fever probably acted as a catalyst, causing them to react with the iron in Gibbs' blood and luminesce."

"It's science," McGee said firmly.

"Cool science," Abby asserted. She raised her hands before her, fingers spread, and waved them like she was conjuring. "The _science_ of _magic_!"

Sam finished his song and three loud knocks reverberated through the room. Tony saw a drop of water running down Dean's face, and then another, and for a moment he thought the tough elder Winchester was crying. Then a third drop formed near Dean's hairline and he realized what had happened even as Ducky spoke.

"His fever has broken. He should start improving now."

"He'll be okay now," Sam said, relieved. He ran a gentle hand over his brother's head. Dean shook him off irritably and called him a "ginormous girl".

"Can we wash these off now?" Ducky asked.

"Yes, and we can get the candles and lights. They've done their part."

"What about those three knocks?" Palmer asked nervously.

Gibbs snorted. "Probably the ambulance attendants out in the hall, wondering what the hell we were doing in here with the lights off and the door locked."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

FBI Agent Fornell came in with the ambulance attendants and announced that he'd arranged for secure transport and a high-security room in the ICU at Bethesda. The EMT's looked around curiously, but didn't comment. Accompanied by Tony DiNozzo and the ever-charming Trent Kort, they wheeled Dean away. He was barely conscious but still protesting angrily that he "didn't need to go to no damn hospital."

With the danger past, fatigue caught up with Sam. He followed along quietly and without protest when Gibbs led him back to the interrogation room. "I'll see about getting you set up somewhere you can sleep for a while," the lead agent told him. "Someone will be in to get you in a few minutes."

Benny had come along with them and he spoke up now. "All right if I speak to my client while he waits?"

"Sure. I'll see that someone's standing by to escort you out."

"Oh, Gibbs! Don't worry. I've got it." Abby was all smiles. "I'll be right out here in the hallway when you're ready."

Benny grinned and leaned close to her. "Now, darlin', that pretty face of yours is jus' gon' make it that much harder for me to leave."

Gibbs snorted and left without comment. Sam slapped a hand over his face as Benny closed the door and came to sit opposite him.

"You know, Dean's gonna kill me for letting you two cross paths."

"Don' tell 'im."

Sam shot him a look. "It's _Dean_. He will find out."

"True."

"Okay, listen. He's out of the building now so Cas should be able to get to him. He can heal him and get himself somewhere safe."

"Heal him, sure," Benny said. "But you know as well as I do that Dean ain't goin' nowhere long's you's stuck in here."

"Cas is an angel," Sam countered, irritated. "He can make him go."

"_Make_ Dean Winchester?" Benny mocked. "Are we talkin' 'bout the same Dean Winchester? Anyways, even if they didn't have you as a bargaining chip, they've got his car. Ain't no way in hell he's leavin' his car."

Sam deflated. "You're right. I've got to figure out who put up the angel wards and get rid of them so Cas can get in and rescue the car."

"My money's on that one-eyed bastard. I can smell hostility and he was just putting it off in waves. I sure wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. Granted, I don't know exactly how far that is. But I'd be more'n willin' to find out."

"Not likely to be Kort," Sam said. He tried and failed to stifle a massive yawn. "The NCIS people don't trust him enough to let him roam around the building freely. Most likely Crowley has bought off a member of the support staff. It would help if Cas could tell me how many wards there are and where in the building they're located."

"I'll ask him. And I'll be a go-between as long's I can get away with it. Right now I reckon you should get you some sleep. Ain't nothin' gon' be happenin' none too soon. If you need anything, Cas can hear you. Let him know and we'll work it out."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Dean drifted off in the ambulance, awoke as they arrived to a brief flash of the sky followed by a running montage of fluorescent lights and ceiling tiles. He was being wheeled down a hallway, he realized, with an EMT to his right and DiNozzo pacing them on his left.

"Where the hell . . . hospital? Son of a _bitch_! I _hate_ hospitals. Dangerous. You can die in hospitals."

"Yeah," Tony said reasonably, "but you can also _not die_ in hospitals."

They reached a private room set apart, with a large window covered by a metal blind, a single straight chair and one hospital bed surrounded by equipment. Tony stood back just far enough to be out of the way while the staff transferred Dean to the bed and hooked him up to assorted monitors. When the nurses and EMT's left Tony came back over and pulled the chair up next to the bed.

"You sure were giving that nurse the ol' stink eye," the agent said. "You know, there's nothing to worry about. You're going to be under guard 24/7 while you're here. There'll be FBI, CIA, Homeland Security and NSA operatives on the door in pairs, rotating between agencies, and me or a member of my team here in the room with you at all times."

"You know I don't understand this," Dean told him. "I don't understand any of this. You say we're not the bad guys, then you arrest us anyway - and I have NOT forgotten that you towed Baby! - and then you go out of your way to let Sam do the ritual even though I _know_ you all think it's a load of crap. Now you've got me under heavy guard, which I understand. I _am_ a modern Houdini, after all, but you talk like you're protecting me."

"We are protecting you." Tony sighed. "You're really not lucid enough for this conversation, you know? Listen, we know about SucroCorp and Dick Roman and the 'shapeshifters'. We know about the battle you've been fighting for years now to protect us all. But we don't know enough. We need you to explain things to us. To give us information. We're protecting you from anyone who might want to silence you."

"So you bring me to a hospital?"

"This is Bethesda. It's a Naval hospital. These are good people. You can trust them."

Dean snorted. "Huh. Yeah, if they are who you think they are."

"What do you mean?"

"The Levis liked to infiltrate hospitals."

"Levis?"

"Leviathans." He caught DiNozzo's confused look. "Dick Roman? SucroCorp?"

"You called them 'Leviathans'?"

"They _were_ Leviathans."

"And they infiltrated hospitals." Tony chewed on his lower lip, thought about it. "Yeah, of course. So they'd have access to the labs and chemicals and specialized equipment for their research!"

Dean stared at him like he was crazy.

"No," he said. "So they could cut people's organs out. And eat them."

Now it was Tony's turn to stare. "You know something?" he said. "You have a really _weird_ world view."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

It was maybe twenty minutes after Benny had left when Agent McGee entered the interrogation rooms, juggling an armload of clothes that Sam recognized as his own, a large bottle of roasted peanuts and a container of fingernail polish remover.

"We're going to put you in a cell for the rest of the day and let you sleep, since you've been up all night," the agent said. "I've brought you a change of clothes out of your car and I'll let you shower and change in the locker room before we go down there. It's gonna be a minute though."

"No hurry," Sam said. "So, why not prison clothes? Does NCIS treat all its prisoners this well?"

"You and your brother are a special case," McGee acknowledged, dropping the clothes on the table. He was still holding the peanuts in his left hand and turned his attention to opening the fingernail polish without loosing his grip on them.

"Because of what Agent DiNozzo told us? That you believe we're 'not the bad guys'?"

"We know you're not. We also know that you have information that is vital to national security. We want your cooperation, and we'd rather get it voluntarily than through coercion.

"I take it that 'us' doesn't include the charming fellow with the eye patch?"

McGee snorted. "Trent Kort. CIA. They're trying to get you transferred into their custody."

"Maybe you should let them have us," Sam suggested. "I know I speak for my brother as well as myself when I say that we'd rather make him look like an idiot than any of you guys when we escape."

"You're awfully sure you're going to escape."

"Yeah, I am." The agent was still trying unsuccessfully to open the fingernail polish remover. "Ah, are you having a problem with that?"

McGee sighed. "Agent DiNozzo was a little . . . exuberant . . . about finally capturing you and Dean. This is his way of celebrating. It was on my desk and, when I picked it up . . . ."

"When did he find the time?"

"I don't know. I'm guessing he probably has an accomplice."

"Here, why don't you let me help you with that?"

"No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I really can't risk releasing you from the handcuffs when I'm alone and at a disadvantage."

"What handcuffs?"

McGee took a closer look at Sam. "Mr. Winchester, please put your handcuffs back on!"

Grinning, Sam put the handcuffs back on - both cuffs around the same wrist.

McGee sighed.

"They won't hold me anyway," Sam pointed out. "Seriously, let me help you." He took the fingernail polish remover and opened it, turned McGee's left hand gently towards himself and began using the little black brush to paint the acetone around the edges of his fingers and palm. "Dean is my brother. I have a lot of experience being super-glued to things."

"Really? He does this too?"

"He used to. _ All_ the _time_. Not so much anymore." Sam was surprised to find himself feeling bereft about that. "Not just superglue, either. Itching powder in my shorts, flour between my sheets, tampons in my coat pocket, rolled up in my gloves so they'd fall out in public when I tried to put my gloves on. _Nair_ in my conditioner!"

"Oh, my god! He sounds just like DiNozzo! Tony likes to get unflattering pictures of me when I'm not looking and post them on the Internet."

"I passed out drunk one night and Dean braided my hair with pink ribbons and sent pictures to everyone we knew!"

"Tony followed me when I went to pick up this girl for a first date, broke into my car while I was in her house and put a whoopee cushion under my seat!"

"And he calls me names all the time! Gigantor, Sasquatch, Chewbacca, Samantha, Francis –"

"- McGoo, McGiggles, McMuckmuck, McGeek -"

"Geek! Yes! Dean calls me 'Geek Boy'! I mean, just because I _enjoy_ learning?

"_Exactly!_ I mean, why is being smart a social disorder?"

For a moment the two sat in companionable silence while Sam peeled one of McGee's fingers from the peanut jar. "So what are you going to do to get even?" he asked finally.

"Oh, no. I don't usually, you know. I mean, it's juvenile but Tony doesn't really mean any harm. And what's there to gain by striking back at him?"

Sam looked at him, brow creased. "But he's your friend, isn't he? I mean, he hassles you and torments you, but it's because he likes you, right?"

"Well . . . yeah, I guess."

"And you like him?"

"Sure. But don't tell him that"

"But you're not going to get him back?"

"You really think I should?"

"Well, you know DiNozzo and I don't. But, I know it'd really hurt Dean's feelings if he glued me to something and I didn't retaliate. Sometimes I think negative attention is the only show of affection he's comfortable with. I blame our dad for that, actually . . . ."

"I don't know. That doesn't make sense to me. _Although_ . . . now that I think about it. Tony does have this weird thing with Gibbs and his head slaps. If Gibbs goes too long without smacking him in the head, Tony kinda acts like a kicked puppy until he does."

"There. You see? I bet DiNozzo would _want_ you to do something horrible to him."

"Oh, but I don't even know what I'd do."

"Well, you're good with computers, right? How about this? You hack into his computer and hide all his music in a different file."

"He'll just think his computer screwed up and bug me until I come fix it for him."

"Wait, there's more. You don't just _hide_ his music. You download a bunch of music he'll hate. Like, if it was Dean I'd download Justin Bieber and Barry Manilow and Celine Dion. Then you change the names on the new music files to match the names of the songs you hid."

"Right!" McGee was following right along. "So when he clicks on, say, Frank Sinatra singing 'My Way', instead he'll get Bieber singing 'Baby Baby Ooh'!"

"Exactly!"

"Oh! And I could get into his phone and change his ringtones!"

"I did that to Dean once. It backfired, though."

"Really? How?"

"I changed his default ringtone to a man' voice saying, 'hey, Sweetcheeks! Your boyfriend's calling!' Then I waited until we were at a bar. I was sitting at the bar itself - in the middle of a bunch of single women, I might add - and Dean was off in a corner hitting on this really gorgeous woman. I called him and the ringtone went off. _Without missing a beat, _he says, 'dammit! I grabbed my brother's phone again!' He comes over, grabs _my_ phone, hands me his phone and says, 'here, Sweetcheeks. Your boyfriend's trying to get ahold of you.' Then he disappears with the woman and I don't see him again for two days."

McGee chuckled and, after a minute, Sam joined in. "That's probably what Tony'd do, too. It might be fun to try it, though, just to see."

"Yeah." Sam worked in silence, freed another finger and a portion of the agent's palm. "Sinatra? Really?"

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Dean had been drifting in a long, drug-assisted nap when he awoke to find Agent DiNozzo plastering the walls of his hospital room with little yellow sheets of paper.

"Dude. What are you doing?"

Tony turned suddenly, startled, and managed to look both sheepish and defiant. "Um, putting up wards?"

"On post-it notes?"

The agent shrugged.

"Can I see?"

Tony brought over the half-full pad he still had in his hand and surrendered it for Dean's inspection.

"It's a nice idea," Dean said, "but these won't work. Or, at least, they shouldn't work." He thought about it. "Where did you get this?"

"Abby. She's gone a little overboard on the whole 'protective sigil' thing."

"And you're putting them up because . . . ?"

Tony looked him in the eye, blinked and spoke, deadly serious. "She made me pinky-swear."

Dean chuckled. "Man, where did she even get all these?"

"The FBI's evidence files. Police reports. Ziva's research. I don't even know, except I gather it's all stuff you're supposed to have used from time to time."

"Not all of it." Dean separated a yellow square from the pad and stuck it to DiNozzo's forehead. "Believe me, if we'd ever hunted the Loch Ness Monster, I'd remember!"

Tony scowled. "She means well."

"Yeah, I get that. Listen, has she got these things up anywhere else that you know of?"

"Are you kidding? She's 'warded' _everything_."

"Everything?"

Tony sighed, took off his suit coat and held it out to Dean. The lining was covered with a random assortment of signs and sigils.

"She warded _you_?"

"And Ziva. And Gibbs. And McGee, but he doesn't know it yet. He told her no because he didn't want to have to explain to his dry cleaner, so she used a special ink that's heat-sensitive. It was invisible until his body heat made it react. I'd kind of like to be there when that makes _him_ react." He grinned. "She's also got them on our cars and pretty much every available surface at headquarters."

"Your bosses let her do that?"

"Not exactly. She's hidden them. The underside of chair seats, inside desk drawers, the backs of maps and wanted posters. The other day Tim took his computer apart so he could blow compressed air over the motor or something or other and there were sigils inside the case. He about blew a gasket. It makes him crazy." Tony considered. "Honestly, I think that's half the reason Abby does it. It makes Tim crazy."

"She's going to want to take some of these down," Dean said. "See these?" He peeled off three wards and handed them to Tony. "Those are angel wards, to keep away angels."

"Seriously?" Tony frowned. "Why would you want to keep away angels?"

_Because most angels are dicks_, Dean thought, but he didn't want to disillusion these people. "Remember that for a while there we were trying to ward off the apocalypse. Lucifer and his oldest followers were angels. Fallen angels, but angels nonetheless. She'll also want to get rid of this one," he handed over another post-it note, "though, personally, I think these are about the scariest bitches in all of the supernatural realm."

"What are they?"

"Cupids."

"Cupids are scary?"

Dean shot him a look. "Big, fat, naked guys who like to hug."

Tony shuddered.

"Have Abby talk to Sam," Dean suggested. "He can tell her what's what. A lot of these things are only needed under very rare, very specific circumstances, and some of them cancel others out."

The agent nodded and took back the pad, not noticing - or, if he did, not mentioning - that Dean had held onto the angel wards. He dropped into the chair by the bed and leaned forward.

"Listen, I know that you believe . . . what you believe. And I know you have reasons and I'm not trying to disparage that. But what if I could offer you, say, another interpretation of some of the freaky things that you've seen and dealt with? Would you maybe be open to that?"

Dean stared at him, suspicious. "I'm listening."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . _

Gibbs and Ziva arrived at the hospital and went up to the ICU ward where Dean Winchester was being held. After identifying themselves to the guards on duty - a man from Homeland Security and a woman from the FBI - Gibbs rapped on the door, opened it a few inches and called for DiNozzo. Tony joined them a minute later.

He paused at the doorway and spoke back into the room. "I'm just gonna be right out here for a minute. Don't worry. I won't let any monster nurses in to eat your liver." He turned and faced his boss.

"Eat his liver?"

"Long story. What's up, boss?"

"The doctor says Winchester's doing well. They're going to let us take him back to NCIS in the morning. Have you had a chance to learn anything from him?"

"He and his people call Dick Roman and his associates 'Leviathans'. It doesn't seem to be a code name. I did go ahead and explain to him what we've figured out regarding the 'shapeshifters' and the SucroCorp conspiracy."

"What'd he say?"

Tony pushed the door open and the three leaned in the doorway to look at the elder Winchester. Dean lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He was grasping the sheet with his good hand. His eyes were wet, his face was red, and he was gasping like someone trying to get their breath back. He looked over, met their eyes and started giggling again.

DiNozzo lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think I cheered him up."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS , . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . Supernatural . . ._

When DiNozzo pulled the door closed so he could speak with his associates, Dean forced himself to stop laughing and looked at the post-it notes in his hand. With a tiny lift of his shoulders, he tore them in half.

Cas appeared before Dean could even think of him. He stalked up beside the bed, rumpled and intense and profoundly worried.

"Are you all right? I couldn't get in."

"Yeah, I know. I'm fine." He offered the angel the post-it notes. "These worked? How the hell is that even possible?"

Cas took the torn sigils. "Yes, of course. They are drawn correctly. Why would they have not worked?"

"They're on post-it notes, for God's sake!"

"If the sign is correct, the medium is not important."

"Then why don't the wards and sigils in Dad's journal, for instance, work all the time?"

"Because they are not drawn to act as wards and sigils. They are drawn as a record and to serve as references. Intent counts. These were intended to ward the places they were set around."

"Abby Sciuto drew these. No way she intended to ward off angels!"

"Of course not. She intended for them to do whatever it was they were meant to do. At any rate, they are broken now. Where do you want me to take you?"

"I can't go anywhere. They've still got Sam. And Baby. Besides, I think we're in too deep this time. They know too much to be safe. Just enough to get themselves hurt if they don't back off. And all our friends are compromised and vulnerable - Garth, Jody, Charlie, Katie and the kids."

"What do we do then?"

"See if you can get a message to Sam. Tell him to put his lawyer brain to work. Hammer out some sort of agreement, see what guarantees he can get in advance. I think the time has come to give Uncle Sam the whole 'the truth is out there' speech."

Castiel tipped his head, gave Dean the inquisitive bird look that he did so well. "I was not aware that you had an uncle named Sam, nor, indeed, any living relatives at all. If you'll tell me where to find him, I will see that he is brought here at once."


	16. Let's Make A Deal

Author's Note: My father's philosophy, when driving through unfamiliar territory, was "always keep going in the right general direction and you will get there eventually". I know where I'm going with this story in the long run, but in the meantime I'm not sure entirely where I am, nor how, exactly, I want to go about wrapping up the various loose ends. This chapter feels kind of rambley to me, but I think we're going in the right general direction and hopefully, if you'll stick with me, we'll get there eventually.

Several people have mentioned Cas' "Godstiel" days and how he was caught on tape. I hadn't originally intended to write that in, as I meant to focus exclusively on the Winchesters, but I think we've reached a point where it's going to have to get mentioned. It's not going to be a major plot point, but it will come up and there will be a reason why NCIS hasn't said anything about it. (Not in this chapter, but soon.) Also, a couple of people have asked "what about the markings on Dean's and Sam's ribs?" As long as no one X-rays them, I don't think that should be an issue.

Disclaimer: I don't know why it freaking snowed again! I could have SWORN it was MAY! :'(

. . .

Chapter 16: Let's Make A Deal

. . .

The men who came for Sam the next morning were almost as tall as he was and heavily muscled. They looked grim and not easily amused. There were four of them, not counting Agent Dorneget, and they briskly cuffed Sam's hands behind his back and led him down the hallway.

Only Dorgneget spoke, his face open and his voice friendly. He gave Sam a puzzled look.

"You look really familiar to me."

Sam smiled at him. "Well, you _have_ seen my picture before."

"Yeah, I suppose. Next left," he told the muscled escort.

They didn't know their way around, Sam realized. Members of some other agency, wanting in on the action, and Dorneget was there to act as a guide. They led Sam through the maze of corridors, up three levels in an elevator, down another hallway and around a corner and he recognized the corridor where the interrogation rooms were located.

DiNozzo was coming towards them from the other direction. He glanced at Sam's arms, secured behind his back, and looked annoyed. Based on his intuition that Tony DiNozzo was a lot like his older brother, Sam figured the annoyance was not for him but for these strangers invading his house and interfering in his case.

As they met at the door to one of the rooms, Sam casually slipped his cuffs and stretched languidly, yawning and letting his hands nearly brush the ceiling. His bodyguards fell back out of arm's reach and drew their guns.

DiNozzo didn't react at all but to roll his eyes and wave a dismissive hand at the four men. He opened the door and indicated the room with a tilt of his head. Sam obediently went inside, ducking his head to clear the doorway. The senior NCIS agent turned back to his escort.

"Sit. Stay. If anyone needs a poddy break, they can ask Agent Dorneget to take them to the little boys' room."

He closed the door firmly and locked it, then came over to sit opposite Sam at the table.

"Good morning. Sleep well?"

"Very, thanks." He had, too, in two long stretches that totaled almost eighteen hours with a break in the middle for dinner and a long talk with McGee about computer hacking, quantum physics, and setting up the perfect practical joke.

"Ziva's on her way back from Bethesda with your brother now. I understand that he's completely recovered, to the point that the doctors are calling it a miracle. Even the bite mark is gone. Ducky's attributing it to the healing power of the human mind. The attending physician says that he's completely out of danger. Granted, the attending physician has never ridden with Ziva."

"Dean doesn't get a goon squad to escort him?" Sam asked.

"Oh, yeah. They're there too." Tony's gaze turned introspective and he smiled an evil little smile. "They've never ridden with Ziva before either."

"So where do we go from here?" Sam asked.

"Like I told you guys the day your brother fell off the building, we know that you're not the cold-blooded psychopaths you're commonly believed to be. We can prove that. We also know that you've been involved with something big and scary with, literally, earth-shaking implications. We believe that you have information we need in order to be able to do our jobs and protect the citizens of the United States of America."

"And in return for sharing that information?" Sam asked.

"You know," Tony said, "you could just offer it to us as concerned citizens and trust that we'll take care of you."

Sam snorted. "Bypassing the trust issue," he said, "if you really _knew_ what you're wanting to know, you'd wish like hell that you didn't."

"Yeah, well, you may be right. Listen," there was a stack of file folders waiting on the corner of the table and Tony slid them over and opened the top one. "I'm going to tell you what we've already figured out and then we can discuss how you and Dean can help us fill in the blanks, all right?"

Sam nodded, waved one hand permissively and sat back to listen. "Shoot."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

When Director Vance entered his office, the first thing he noticed was two feet sticking out from under his desk. His first thought was of The Wizard of Oz. These feet were not clad in ruby slippers, though, but rather hot pink biker boots over black fishnet hosiery.

"Miss Sciuto? Are you all right?"

Abby slid out from under his desk looking startled and distressed. She was laying on a mechanic's rolling board and holding a spray bottle and a smudged white cloth.

"Director! I'm sorry! I just . . . I was . . . I was just . . . I was cleaning your desk."

Vance gave her a tolerant smile. "I knew the sigil was there. I didn't mind." He offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet.

"It was an angel ward!" she moaned. "I warded the building against _angels_! I'm going to hell!"

"Did one of the Winchesters tell you that?" he asked sharply.

"No. They just said I should take them down and it would be fine. And Sister Rosita said it would be okay. But _still_. I warded off angels! I should go to confession, but the Father will make me say a whole bunch of Hail Marys for dabbling in the occult." She looked profoundly unhappy.

"I'm sure it will be all right. Was there anything else?"

"No, um," she chewed on her lower lip indecisively.

"What?"

"Well, there are a couple more wards in the room. I can take them down if you like. They're not angel wards but I guess they're not really necessary either."

Bypassing the necessity of wards in general, Vance tipped his head and asked her, "so what am I warded against."

"Um, shtrigas and bauchen. Uh, brownies."

"Brownies?"

"Yeah. The mythological creatures, not the little girls in pigtails and green dresses and . . . um . . . I should go now."

She was edging nervously towards the door as she talked. He waited until she turned away and called her name.

She spun back. "Sir?"

He gently kicked her forgotten rolling board towards her. It coasted to a stop at her feet and she stooped to gather it up, gave him a bright, distracted smile and was gone.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

"I feel like I've stepped into an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard," Dean said cheerfully.

Ziva glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. "I do not know what that is."

"Old TV show about these two cousins who lived down south - Georgia, maybe? See, the guy who ran the county, Boss Hogg, was crooked and he was always trying to cheat their Uncle Jesse out of his farm. The cousins drove a sweet '69 Dodge Charger named the General Lee and just about every episode they'd get into a wild car chase with the local cops where they'd drive on two wheels and go through creeks and jump over ravines and such. I honestly never believed you could do that stuff with a real car. You do know you're killing the suspension, right?"

"Well, obviously, I cannot stop for them. You're a high-flight-risk federal prisoner and part of a top-secret investigation. I cannot risk them being fake cops trying to either rescue or kill you, and if they are real cops, then they don't have the security clearance to be involved."

The sound of sirens increased as a fifth police car came out of a side street right behind them and joined the chase and a sixth shot out of an alleyway just ahead to cut them off. Ziva twisted the wheel almost casually to the left and pulled up the emergency brake, causing the wheels to lock up and the car to spin 180 degrees in a classic bootlegger's turn. She released the brake and floored the accelerator, blasting past all five of the squad cars on her tail.

The CIA agent riding shotgun was six-three, built like a linebacker, and shrieking into his cell phone in a high-pitched and decidedly girly voice, "call them off! Dammit! Call them _off_! This crazy woman is trying to kill us! Make them _stop!"_

Dean turned to the FBI guy on his right. "Man, if you're gonna toss your cookies, toss 'em out the window! Seriously. You puke on me, I'm gonna be pissed."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"So we figured that, if the SDSSSDM, or Disguismatron, or Bond Facial, or thing, was destroyed when you blew up SucroCorp, that would explain why the latest pair of imposters were just look-a-likes and not . . . ." Tony DiNozzo trailed off to a stop and regarded his audience.

Sam Winchester sat very still with his lips pressed tight and his eyes open wide.

"You know," Tony said, "you're much better at keeping a straight face than your brother is."

Now Sam did laugh. "I can imagine. He, ah, he didn't actually hurt himself did he?"

"Set off a couple of monitors and pulled loose a few medical sensors, but no. No lasting damage. I suggested X-raying his ribs to make sure he hadn't cracked any laughing, but he said that the stories we'd have to think up to explain his X-rays would probably do him in."

"He's probably right." Sam yawned again and stretched. "I really need to talk to my brother."

"Yeah." Tony drummed his fingers on the table, thinking it through. "You want to ask him what he wants to do. Do you give us the truth as you see it, ghosts and monsters and demons and all, or do you make up something that will fit in with the theories we've come up with?"

"Uh, yeah." Sam was caught off-guard, unused to being so well-understood by an authority figure.

"It's like we're speaking two different languages, isn't it?" DiNozzo mused. "Your perception of events is defined by your beliefs and education, your history and life experiences. Our perception of the same events is defined by our vastly different background. Maybe we need to treat it that way. You tell us your truths in your language and we'll find a way to translate it into ours."

"I suppose that's an option." _These people should write science fiction,_ Sam thought.

"How about we start with something simple? Tell me about the hydras? Because, in our world view there has to have been a human agent involved with the existence of two such bizarre snakes and we'd like to make sure there aren't any more out there."

"The hydra. Right." Sam took a second to order his thoughts. "Actually, there was a human agent involved. Dean and I tracked the first one in Kentucky, about three months ago. We didn't know it was a hydra at first. It was a series of bizarre deaths, one or two each in a string of towns stretching from the Ohio border almost to Frankfort. In each case the body was burned from what looked like a lightning strike. Dean figured out - he's good with patterns - that the deaths were following the path of a traveling reptile show, Fred Burton's Reptilapalooza."

DiNozzo was taking notes, consulting his files. "They passed through here two-and-a-half years ago. Abby already has them flagged as suspicious, but we haven't been able to find any traces of them since," he paused and looked up at Sam, "about three months ago."

"Yeah, they don't exist anymore. Burton was the last person killed by the first hydra. His widow quietly sold off the remaining reptiles to small zoos and other reptile shows."

"So what happened exactly? You said the deaths were caused by lightning strikes?"

"_Apparently_ caused by lightning strikes. After Dean made the connection with the reptile show, we had a closer look at one of the bodies." He caught DiNozzo's inquisitive glance and answered his unspoken question. "We went in posing as FBI. I don't remember what names we used. Two of Dean's godawful rock band aliases. Anyway, looking closer at the site of the strike, we could tell that the burns were covering up bite marks. Burton had gotten a hydra egg - actually, I guess he'd gotten _two_ hydra eggs - on the black market."

"There's a black market in hydra eggs?"

"And every other sort of arcane and eldritch commodity you can think of."

"Noted."

"Anyway, being the responsible and concerned citizen that he was, he decided to cover up the fact that his pet hydra kept breaking out of its cage and killing people. He didn't want to have to face the legal and financial ramifications - even if the authorities had thought it was a mutant cobra, Burton didn't have a permit to keep a cobra. He got an electric cattle prod and souped it up with a portable generator to the point that it would ignite a body. Dean figures he got the idea from that scene in The Green Mile where the executioner set the one guy on fire. Whenever Lola - did I tell you he named the thing Lola? - whenever Lola escaped, he'd track her down and re-capture her, then use his cattle prod to burn her victims. Then he'd pull up stakes and head out before anyone could put two and two together. The last time he went after her, he had her cornered in an old shed and she turned on him. She killed him and then we killed her and we figured that was the end of it. He hadn't bothered to mention that she had a sibling at large in Rock Creek Park."

"What became of Burton's body?" DiNozzo asked.

Sam made a face and looked away. Tony sighed. "Don't tell me - you salted and burned it?"

"The guy was just begging to come back as a vengeful spirit. Better to take care of him from the start, rather than wait until he'd started killing people."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

With Dean returned to NCIS headquarters and safely ensconced in a cell of his own the NCIS team were summoned to MTAC for a meeting. Tony and McGee arrived bickering.

"I'm telling you, McPlanters, I'm not the one who super glued you to a jar of peanuts. When would I have had a chance to set it up? I was busy the _entire_ time!"

"Oh, I'm not saying you did it personally. But I'm pretty sure you thought it up. You just had an accomplice actually do it."

"Right! Like I would really do a thing like that when I wasn't going to be there to point and laugh! I mean, seriously? Where's the payoff?"

"I know you, Tony. You were probably counting on watching the security video."

"I wasn't, but that's a _great_ idea!" Tony said.

"Hey!" McGee sang out at the same time. "I can watch the video to see for certain who put it there!"

They both dived for the wall screen remote. McGee got to it first and Tony tried to wrestle it away from him.

"There they go," Fornell's voice said drily, "acting like baboons again."

The two agents froze and turned slowly to find their boss watching them with a thoughtful expression.

"Oh, I don't know, Tobias," he said. "We did catch the Winchesters. I'd say they were entitled to act like baboons for a minute."

"Thanks, Boss!" Tony said, and went back to trying to get the remote from McGee. A second later they both flinched under twin head smacks.

"Minute's up," Gibbs said.

Vance and Trent Kort came in the room and the atmosphere chilled perceptibly.

"Well," Kort said. "Congratulations on capturing the Winchester brothers. You've had them for what now? Almost thirty hours? And what do we have to show for it? A farcical 'magical ceremony'," he did air quotes. "An unnecessary trip to Bethesda, a car chase involving multiple state and local law enforcement agencies, and a story about smuggled cobra eggs that, frankly, we could have deduced for ourselves."

"Frankly why didn't you?" Tony asked.

"What?"

"You said that, frankly, you could have deduced the story about the cobra eggs yourself. So, frankly, why didn't you?"

"Because it is beneath my radar. I am not interested in reptile smuggling. I am interested in weapons of mass destruction. I am interested in chemical and biological warfare. I am interested in genocide."

"What's your point, Kort?" Vance asked sharply.

"My point is that you are handling these men with kid gloves and it is getting us nowhere."

"Yes, because intimidation and brute force has worked so well with the Winchesters in the past."

"That's because the Winchesters have never met _me"_

"You think you can put the fear of God into them?" Gibbs asked, quietly amused.

"No, Agent Gibbs. I think I can put the fear of me into them. Give me half an hour alone in a room with Dean Winchester and I will have him _begging_ to be allowed to cooperate."

The room went completely silent.

Gibbs glanced at his director, one eyebrow canted slightly.

Vance shrugged and offered him a tiny nod, ceding him the lead in this matter.

"Twenty minutes from now in Interrogation A," Gibbs said. "You go get ready. I'll have Dean brought in."

Kort, surprised and pleased to have gotten his own way so easily, beamed and rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. You may want to take notes on this. I'll show you how to interrogate a prisoner." He headed for the door, stopped just inside. "Oh, and you may want to have your M.E.'s stand by. If he gets violent and I have to subdue him, he could be injured."

Kort left and Vance turned to Gibbs and raised an eyebrow.

Gibbs grinned ruefully and lifted one shoulder. "The devil made me do it, Leon. Seriously. How often do we get a chance like this?" He turned to shoot a glare at his team. "Well?"

They scrambled into action.

"I've got the popcorn," Tony said.

"I will get drinks," Ziva volunteered.

"I'll call Abby and we'll round up some more chairs," McGee offered.

"Save me a seat," Vance said. "This ought to be good."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

The observation room was crowded with Gibbs' team, Abby, the two medical examiners, Director Vance, Agent Fornell and a pair of evidence technicians manning the audio/visual equipment. In addition to the popcorn and sodas, Tony and Ziva had come up with an assortment of movie-theater candy. Gibbs nursed a cup of coffee and Abby was slurping at a gigantic CaffPow! and amusing herself by blowing bubbles through the straw.

In the brightly-lighted interrogation room the door opened and a couple of massive goons led Dean Winchester in, cuffed him to the table and left.

"Showtime," DiNozzo said.

Dean looked around. A stack of crammed-full file folders lay on the corner of the table and there was a bottle of water in front of him.

He pointed at the mirrored surface of the observation window. "You know, I can smell the popcorn. So, are you guys the judges? You could at least tell me what I'm being graded on. Style? Technical difficulty? Execution?"

He casually drew a paper clip from his waistband and picked the lock on his left cuff. He opened the water, rose slightly, and poured out a small puddle on the other chair. Then he re-capped the water, tucked away the paper clip and fastened the cuff back around his wrist.

The door to observation opened and Kort stuck his head in and looked around at them.

"Oh, very professional," he sneered.

Gibbs sipped his coffee. "Just taking notes," he said laconically.

"Just don't interfere," Kort snarled. "Whatever happens, do not come through that door!"

He slammed the observation room door behind him.

"Gee, Boss," McGee said, "should we have warned him that his seat is all wet?"

"Oh, Kort," Tony called very softly, turning his head towards the hall, "you might want to look before you sit down!" He looked around at his co-workers. "Do you think he heard me?"

"I don't know," Ziva said. "I would go out in the hall and check, but I would not want to be accused of interfering."

In the interrogation room, the door opened and Trent Kort stalked in. He closed the door behind him with a firm _click_, strode over to the table and stood over Dean, looming intimidatingly.

After a few seconds Dean tipped his head back and looked up at the big man. "Sweetheart, if you're trying to get up the nerve to ask me to dance, you're not my type."

"Clever," Kort growled, "but your legendary charm does not work on me."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dean said. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. Yeah, y'see, these vibes you're picking up that are rolling off me? That's not charm. It's derision."

"He's not wasting any time on niceties," Vance observed.

"D'you get the feeling Winchester doesn't care for Kort?" Fornell asked.

"Well, he _is_ the Righteous Man," Gibbs pointed out sardonically. "His judgment is absolute."

"You're a righteous man too, Boss," Tony reminded him.

"Yeah. I don't like Kort much either."

With a quick, snake-like strike, Kort lashed out and sent the water flying across the room to crash into the opposite wall. Dean completely failed to flinch in shock. Kort plowed ahead regardless.

"So far you've only dealt with NCIS. Nice, friendly, personable little agents. You like them. They like you. And they've even found evidence that can clear you of all these nasty, nasty crimes that so many people think you're guilty of. I hope you don't imagine that any of it's going to see the light of day."

Dean leaned back in his chair and yawned.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Kort was all biting sarcasm now. "Am I boring you?"

"Well, yeah! Seriously? I can do the 'bad cop' speech in my sleep. And better than you."

"I am _not_ playing 'bad cop'!" Kort snarled. "Do you even know what I am?"

"One-eyed trouser snake?"

(In observation, DiNozzo snorted cola out his nose.)

"I am the CIA agent who is going to BURY you in Gitmo! I am the man who is going to make your life a living hell! You think 'monsters' and 'demons' are bad? I am the scariest thing you've ever seen."

Holding Dean's gaze, Kort sank into the other seat. He went very still.

Dean gave him a thin, wicked smile.

"Dude, I have seen _waitresses_ that were scarier than you. Hell, I've slept with waitresses who were scarier than you." He thought about it, shrugged a little and bobbed his head. "Granted, I was pretty drunk at the time."

"I know you think you're very clever," Kort snarled, "but before we're done here you're going to understand that _I_ am the alpha male in the room."

"Maybe in a room full of hamsters. Maybe."

("Don't anyone choke on popcorn kernels," Ducky admonished.)

"Tell me something," Dean said, leaning forward. There was a seriousness to his demeanor now, and an edge to his voice. "Did you really put a bomb in Tony's car?"

"What?" Kort blinked. "Oh, for God's sake! That was years ago. What does it even matter now?"

"It was a _Mustang_! It matters."

"Yes, that's right. You're one of those car freaks aren't you? Rather a nice Impala you've got yourself. Be a shame if something happened to it."

"This is gonna get ugly," Abby said happily.

Dean smiled a bright smile that did not reach his eyes. "Wait now. Wait just a second. I _know_ you did not just threaten my car."

Kort rose and leaned over the table, giving the audience in the observation room an entirely unwanted view of his wet backside. "I could take a sledgehammer to it. Rip it apart, bit by bit."

Dean laughed a high-pitched and slightly unstable sounding little laugh. He shook his head and wagged one finger at the CIA agent. "No. You are _not_ threatening my car!"

"Put it into a car crusher! Sell it for so much scrap metal!"

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

The four big men on guard duty in the hall jumped and flinched away when the interrogation room door was snatched open and Trent Kort sailed through it head first and slammed into the opposite wall.

The door slammed closed and locked behind him.

The door to the observation room next door opened more slowly and an assortment of amused agents and support personnel wandered out.

Kort dragged himself up, temper blazing. "Somebody give me your gun. I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!"

"Stand down," Vance said, annoyed. "No one's killing anyone."

Kort was boiling mad and kept going, ignoring the director. "First I'm going to blow his goddamned head off, then I'm going to drag his brother in to see his steaming corpse. Maybe then Sam will understand that his only option is to do as I say!"

"Calm down," Gibbs ordered shortly. "You're not going to do anything of the sort. You just got your ass handed to you for threatening a car. You tell Sam Winchester you've killed his brother and he will rip you limb from limb with his bare hands."

"And I didn't see any of you coming in to back me up when the prisoner attacked me," Kort accused.

"And interfere with your interrogation?" Gibbs said.

"I was too busy taking notes," McGee offered.

"What?" Tony asked innocently. "You mean you didn't intend for that to happen?"

"Smart asses," Kort growled, and stomped off down the corridor.

"You might want to change your pants," Tony called after him. "It looks like you had a little accident."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Gibbs entered the interrogation room to find Dean sitting quietly, cuffed once more to the table. He looked at the cuffs, then raised an eyebrow at the elder Winchester.

"Keeps me from walking around slamming my fist into things."

"Doctor Mallard will approve, then."

"Dude! What the hell was that even?"

"The CIA disapproves of how we're handling your case. Kort wanted to give his method a try." Gibbs slapped a square of paper face down on the table.

Dean picked it up and looked at it.

"Seven point eight?!" he squawked. "Come on, man! That was at least a nine-three!"

Gibbs shrugged. "He only bounced once and he got up by himself. Plus, you lost points for opening the door before you threw him through it."

Dean sighed.

"Sam has started working on an agreement whereby you two answer questions about your activities in exchange for immunity for yourselves and your associates in the Hunting community. Are you going to be okay with that?"

"That depends." Dean looked Gibbs in the eye, one righteous man to another. "I don't want you and your people involved in this."

"Why's that?"

"Listen, when you were pretending to be Harvey Stein, you told Garth, 'knowing what we know now, we couldn't _not_ hunt.' Why did you say that?"

"Well, I guess . . . we figured it would sound authentic. Ziva's been researching Hunters and Hunting and that's what a lot of Hunters said to her."

"Exactly. When you know what we know, you can't _not_ act. Not if you're anybody that's worth a damn, and you people are. Doing what you do, you've got enough on your plate. You don't need to be involved in my crap too. And I've got enough dead heroes on my conscience. I don't want any of your names added to the list."

Gibbs sighed. "Honestly," he said, "I don't know that you or I either one will have much say on who does or does not get read into it when you've divulged your secrets. What we've learned about SucroCorp has scared a lot of people. This thing goes all the way up to the president now. But I want you to remember something. No matter who you're dealing with - no matter who - if they try to screw you over you come to me and I will help you. Understand?"

Dean gave him a small, none-too-happy smile. "You're a good guy, Old Man. Listen, will you do me a favor now?"

"What sort of favor?"

"One of your rules is about always carrying a knife, right?"

"Rule nine. That's right."

"Well, in the trunk of the Impala there's a certain knife." Dean described it in detail. "Now, when all this is over, I'm gonna want it back. But for right now, while Sam and I are stuck in here, I'd like you to carry that knife instead of your ordinary one. Please?"

Gibbs considered. "It'd be mishandling evidence, but it's not like your case is ever going to go to court anyway. I guess I could do that, if it'd make you feel better. But why? What's so special about that knife?"

Dean gave him a grim smile. "It kills demons."


	17. Strange Days Indeed

Chapter 17: Strange Days Indeed

Author's Note: Thanks, as always, for all the reviews, alerts, favorites, death threats and etc.! So, everyone, sorry again that this is so late at night! The past week has been brutal at work. I haven't had any time at all to write, or even to think about what I was going to write when I did have time. I'm afraid we're still going to be rambling around a bit in this chapter. There's a faint line in the distance that I think might be a path or a road or even a finish line (!) but, in the meantime, everyone look at the butterflies! :)

Disclaimer: I'm not just hiding from reality! (I've also put up wards. . .)

. . . .

Another morning was dawning over Washington, early light pouring in through the skylight over the MCRT bullpen. McGee and Ziva were already at their desks when Tony DiNozzo came in, dressed in one of his customary designer suits, carrying an old-school portable CD player and wearing earphones.

McGee tried, not entirely successfully, to hide a small smirk. "Going retro, Tony?"

Tony dropped his backpack next to his desk and pulled out one earphone. "You know," he said, "it's the funniest thing. I got home last night, thought I'd listen to a little music. So I opened up my computer and programmed my usual play list, but instead of the songs I was expecting, all I got was Justin Beiber! I went all through the computer. The songs were there, but no matter what I clicked on, I got Justin Beiber. And you know what I discovered?"

"What's that?"

Tony's face lit in a grin so broad as to be intentionally obnoxious. "I _love_ the Beib!"

McGee's expression went from smug to grouchy in 0.27 seconds. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, _yeah_! You know, I never really listened to his stuff before, but the kid is _good_! Check this!" He flipped open his jacket, unbuttoned the middle three buttons on his shirt and pulled the sides apart to reveal a Justin Beiber tee shirt underneath.

McGee's computer dinged. He glanced down and opened the new email that had just popped up.

_He's going to be really annoying now and it's all your fault!_

He glanced across the bullpen and Ziva was glaring at him over her own computer, a pencil held horizontally between her two index fingers as if it were a throwing knife. It shouldn't be possible to hold a pencil threateningly, but, of course, if anyone could do it it would be Ziva.

"Doing a strip tease, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked laconically, coming into the bullpen.

"Not at all, Boss," Tony said, re-buttoning his shirt. "Just showing off my new-found love for Justin Beiber, which I discovered when all the music files on my computer started mysteriously playing his music instead of the music I had programmed in." He gave his boss a bright smile.

Gibbs responded with a slight lift to one eyebrow. "Well, when you've finished, we need to get ready for an inter-agency conference in Vance's office at ten-hundred hours. Outside of NCIS, the prevailing sentiment seems to be that the Winchesters are playing games with us, attributing everything to the supernatural. It's going to make hammering out some sort of deal difficult. You get with Ducky and go over his psych profile of them. Vance likes your translation analogy, but we're going to have to sell it first. Also, the CIA is insisting on an interview with James Novak. There's something there that they're not sharing with us, I think. See if the Winchesters can make that happen and what kind of reassurances it'll take from us."

"On it, Boss!" Tony replied, and sauntered out of the bullpen, cheerfully singing, "baby, baby, oh!"

McGee shot Gibbs a puzzled, disappointed look.

"Problem, McGee?"

"No, I . . . yeah, I just, uh, I kinda thought you might . . . you know . . . .?"

"Smack DiNozzo on the head for singing Justin Beiber?"

"Well, yeah."

Gibbs went around and sat down behind his desk, took a drink of the coffee he'd brought in with him and flipped open a file folder before he answered.

"If you're gonna poke a bear, Tim, you've gotta be prepared to deal with a poked bear."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Tony danced into the area of NCIS headquarters that contained the holding cells, still listening to his CD player and singing along. Dean Winchester was in a cell on his left just as he came through the main entrance to the area, with Sam further down and on his right.

McGee was standing outside Sam's cell. Sam was just inside the bars and the two men were talking, heads close together. As Tony came in, they turned and shot him twin glares.

Tony stopped next to Dean, who stood leaning casually against the bars of his own cage, arms dangling outside.

"Whoa!" Tony said softly. "Is that a bitchface?"

"In stereo." Dean grinned. "Isn't it cute when the little guys think they can out-prank the masters?"

Together, they turned and smiled at their junior counterparts. Sam and McGee glared back. Singing ostentatiously, Tony edged around so that his back was towards the younger men and lowered his voice, speaking for Dean's ears alone.

"Is it possible to salt and burn a CD?"

"Are you kidding? I know how to make napalm. I can salt and burn _anything!_"

Tony gave him a grin, then shifted back around to include Sam and McGee when he spoke. "So, here's the thing, guys. We're working on putting together a deal to clear your names in exchange for information, however, the fact that basically every alphabet agency in Washington is involved is complicating matters. Some of them aren't as . . . reasonable . . . as we are about your unique world view. The CIA in particular," he turned more directly towards Dean, "as I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear, has placed a pre-condition on even discussing a deal. They want to talk to your friend Jimmy Novak. We don't know _why_ they want to talk to Novak, so we'd like a chance to talk to him first. Do you think that's something that you could arrange?"

Dean looked down and across the hallway at his brother and Tony was conscious of them doing their silent communication thing.

"Jimmy Novak is dead," Sam said. "He was shot and killed four years ago. An angel named Castiel is using his body as a vessel, with his permission."

"Could you arrange for us to speak with Castiel?" Tony asked. He had decided that his new motto for dealing with the Winchesters was "just go with it".

Again they did the silent communication.

"A'right," Dean said.

"Great!" Tony offered Dean his cell phone. "Would you like to go ahead and set that up right now?"

Dean grinned. "It's done."

"Done how?"

"Dude. He's an angel. I prayed to him. He can hear my prayers. Sometimes he even pays attention."

"Okay . . . I see. But do you have, maybe, a less-celestial alternative? Just, you know, in case the whole prayer thing doesn't work?"

"Nah. Cas isn't very good with technology. We gave him a smart phone but he couldn't figure out how to answer it and he got frustrated and smited it."

"When Dean got a smart phone, I had to show him how to answer it the first time," Sam confided to McGee.

"I had to program Tony's ringtones," McGee said.

The two younger men smirked at their elders.

Tony and Dean exchanged a look.

"Geeks," they said in chorus.

Tony's cell rang and he answered it, listened to his boss at the other end, then said goodbye. He hit the "end call" button and stood for a long moment staring down at the device in his hand.

"DiNozzo?" McGee said. "Problem?"

"No, not at all." He looked up at the other agent, tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. "James Novak, aka 'Castiel', has just presented himself at the main entrance and informed them that we want to talk to him."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Ziva went down to the entrance and collected the man named Novak, who identified himself as an angel of the Lord. He was inoffensive in appearance, shorter than average with dark, curly hair and deep blue eyes. His hair was mussed, he wore a battered trench coat in spite of the spring heat and his tie was backwards. His voice was very deep and when he spoke his manner was polite.

"We appreciate you coming in voluntarily," Ziva told him. "And, I am sorry, but I'm afraid that it is necessary for me to restrain you. It is a matter of procedure."

She snapped a pair of cuffs on him, cuffing his hands in front so as not to discomfit him any more than she had to.

He studied the cuffs curiously. "You realize that these will not hold me if I decide to depart?"

Ziva smiled slightly. "Oh? Are you an escape artist like the Winchesters?"

"No, I am an angel of the Lord."

"Of course. Silly me. Still, I am required to put them on you."

"Then you must do your duty as you see fit."

"Thank you. Please step this way."

They entered the elevator and rode in silence until they came to the second floor and it stopped to pick up a passenger. Abby Sciuto got on, distracted and still looking miserable. Lost in her own little world, she didn't seem to notice them until Novak/Castiel spoke to her kindly in his deep, gentle voice.

"Please do not be distressed, Abigail. You meant no harm and none was done."

Abby looked up. Ziva saw recognition in her eyes as she took in the man's appearance. She swallowed hard and flushed bright red.

"You do not know what to think of me," the 'angel' continued, smiling at her. "Your reason tells you that I am merely a deluded human, but your heart tells you otherwise. It is all right. It is not important what you believe, so long as you believe this: You are as beloved in Heaven as you are on Earth and no one bears you any ill will for doing whatever was in your power to protect the people you love."

She teared up. "What a sweet thing to say!"

"It is the truth and nothing more."

Abby beamed at him, then stepped in and gave him an impulsive hug. When he didn't hug her back she looked down and noticed the handcuffs.

"You handcuffed an angel?" she asked, horrified.

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Abby!"

"It is all right," 'Castiel' assured her.

The elevator pinged to a stop and Abby reluctantly stepped off.

"Abby?"

She turned back, stood in the doorway and held the door, waiting for him to speak.

"You are familiar with the question, 'nature or nurture?' It is not a valid question. Both are important in a person's development. That is why, sometimes, for a person to reach their potential and become the adult they are meant to be, it is necessary for them to be born to one set of parents but raised by another. It is not a sign that they were rejected or flawed in any way. It is just a manifestation of Heaven's plans for them."

Abby abandoned any pretense at being scientifically objective and gave in to her need to ask. "Why didn't my mom and dad tell me that I was adopted then?"

"You will have to ask them that, when you see them again," 'Castiel' told her, "but I believe you will find they simply forgot that there was ever a time when you weren't their little girl."

"Abby," Ziva coaxed gently.

Abby stepped out of the elevator finally and released the door. "Goodbye, Castiel. It was nice to meet you. I'd like to talk to you again sometime."

"I'd like that as well," he replied.

She waved goodbye as the door finally closed between them.

The elevator continued upwards in silence until Ziva decided to break it.

"Have you no revelations for me then?" she asked.

"Do you wish revelations?" the 'angel' asked her.

"Well . . . no, I guess not."

"I thought not. But perhaps you have a revelation for me?"

"What sort of revelation?"

"You know who loves you. You have only to act on it, but you do not. You shy away. Why is that?"

Ziva shifted uncomfortably and reminded herself that he wasn't _really_ an angel, no matter how authentic he seemed. "I'm sorry," she lied, "but I don't know what you're talking about."

He tilted his head and peered at her in a surprisingly bird-like contemplation, but did not call her on it. Finally the elevator reached their floor and she took his elbow and guided him off. "Please come this way and I will take you to a room where we can talk."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

When Abby returned to her lab she found Gibbs, Tony, and McGee already there.

"There's an angel in the building!" she beamed. "Did you meet the angel?"

"Abby," McGee sighed, "he isn't an angel. And it isn't going to help anything for you to feed his delusions."

"How do you know he isn't an angel?" she challenged.

"He did come when Dean prayed for him," Tony pointed out wryly.

"It was a coincidence. Probably they'd already arranged for him to show up today. They could have worked it out with that so-called lawyer of theirs."

"Or, he could be a real angel," Abby persisted.

"You can't really believe that!" McGee protested.

"I can believe anything I want," she told him. "Bossman said so."

"Can you believe and work at the same time?" Gibbs asked pointedly.

"Absolutely, most divine and benevolent master," she replied, dropping into her computer chair.

"Excellent. So, have you come up with any reason for the CIA to want to talk to Novak?"

"Mmm . . . no. But maybe."

"Abs," Gibbs growled warningly.

"I'm getting there! I'm getting there! I'm just trying to figure out how to explain it. Okay, so I ran all the regular facial recognition programs, searched every database I could find for anything on James Novak, Googled him even. Nothing. A few random hits on security cameras, grocery stores, gas stations, that sort of thing. Not even very many of those. Then I tried 'Castiel' and I got a _ton_ of hits. Apparently there's an angel named Castiel as a character in a series of pulp horror novels. Not very big sellers but with a rabid fan base. There's an unbelievable amount of fanfiction online."

"I'm not looking for fictional characters, Abs."

"I know, so I filtered all _those_ hits out and you know what I had left?"

"Not until you tell me."

"Bupkiss. Well, not total bupkiss. There are a few very scholarly religious sites that list Castiel as the Angel of Thursday, but that's pretty much the whole of it."

"So that would be the 'mmm . . . no'," Tony said. "What's the 'maybe'?"

"The 'maybe' would be that I called Sister Rosita and asked her if she'd ever heard of anyone named Castiel. She had. She says that about four or five years ago there was a story going around in religious circles - I'm talking about _really_ devout people - that a warrior angel named Castiel had raised a righteous man from hell. Then, a couple years later, the rumor mill said that there was a civil war in heaven. They said that a certain faction of angels wanted to bring about the apocalypse and that Castiel rebelled and sided with humanity to stop it. He succeeded, but he went mad in the process and declared himself the new God. He eventually came to his right mind and stepped down, but not before curing a leper colony and smiting a bunch of people."

"I'm sorry," McGee said, "but is this supposed to be something other than a fairy tale?"

"A lot of religious lore is just secular history told through the lens of church doctrine," Tony pointed out. "Also, a lot of people think that there's a lot more going on at the Vatican than the rest of the world is aware of. It's possible they knew things that the rest of us didn't even suspect, and let it trickle out in mythologized form."

"Not only that, but in October of 2012 a leper colony in India was suddenly, miraculously cured. There was also a spate of unusual deaths of religious leaders - specifically those who preached hatred against one group or another - and, for some reason, motivational speakers. One of the witnesses to the death of the first religious leader to die claimed he was killed by a 'young, sexy God in a raincoat' who then changed the stained-glass window from a picture of Jesus to a picture of himself. And on October 11th of that year, there was a mysterious massacre in the campaign office of Senator Michelle Walker. Not only were the responsible parties never found, but no one was even able to conclusively say what the cause of death was for any of the victims."

"There was a security video of the killer, though, wasn't there?" McGee said. "I remember seeing it all over the news."

"Yes!" Abby practically pounced on him. "It was all over the news for weeks!"

"So did you pull it up and see if it looks like it has anything to do with Novak or the Winchesters?"

She stood suddenly and flounced off to the side. "You do it, Timmy."

He frowned, puzzled, and shrugged. "Okay."

He seated himself at her computer and typed in a command, hit 'enter' and waited. "What do you mean, no results?" he snapped at the computer. He tried again with a slightly different search term and got the same answer. Glaring at the screen, he hunched down and set to work searching in earnest.

"He's not gonna find anything, is he?" Gibbs asked.

"I couldn't. I not only searched online, in both official and public databases, I contacted people at news stations and newspaper offices and got them to search their private files - even their hard copies. Everyone _remembers_ the massacre, but no one can find any stories or information about it. There's nothing about Senator Walker - not even on the U.S. Senate official site - and nothing at all about the people who were killed. There's also nothing on the evangelist and motivational speaker deaths, nor is there anything about the miraculous healing at the leper colony. There are apocryphal references to it all, stories people heard from a neighbor's cousin's hairdresser's brother who was there at the time, but nothing official. No news stories, no crime reports. Nothing."

"Someone went in and wiped it out. But who? And why?"

"SucroCorp?" Tony suggested. "If they were messing with genetics, the cure for leprosy could have come out of their lab. Maybe the Winchesters or Novak got their hands on it and decided to put it to good use. And the people who died could have been their operatives. Or it could have been their operatives doing the killing. Either way, they'd have a vested interest in keeping a lid on it."

"That's possible," Abby agreed. "But, I was thinking more along the lines of God doing it. Or, y'know, his direct opposite - the CIA."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Before we begin," Ziva said, "I need to Mirandize you."

Castiel looked back at her in mild alarm. "If you must," he said. "However, I can assure you that I am perfectly clean."

She blinked. "What?"

"What?"

"I am not doubting your cleanliness." She gave him a puzzled frown.

"Of course. I'm sorry. I don't know what 'Mirandize' means. I assumed it was something akin to 'Simoniz', which is something Sam once did to Dean's car, which then led Dean to threaten to do it to Sam, though I don't believe he ever did. Apparently it refers to a method of cleaning something - a highly-regarded method, I've no doubt, but one that is beneath Dean's admittedly stringent standards for the maintenance of his car."

"Of course. A car wash. I believe I have heard of them. The Miranda has nothing to do with car washes, though."

"She doesn't?"

"Who doesn't?"

"Miranda."

"I'm sorry. The Miranda is not a person. It is a statement of your rights under the Fifth and Sixth Amendments while you are in custody."

"Am I in custody?"

Ziva blinked and considered how to answer that. He was, after all, sitting handcuffed in a locked interrogation room in the middle of a federal law enforcement facility. At the same time, she was wary of alarming him in any way that might impede his cooperation. Plus, there was just a teensy, tiny little part of her that worried that he really was an angel who could simply _pouf_ and disappear if he so chose - and how would she explain _that_ to her boss?

"I would appreciate it if you would consider yourself to be," she said carefully. "The Miranda is as much for our protection in this instance as it is for yours. There are many other, larger agencies looking over our shoulder in this investigation and it would not do to give any of them cause to claim that we had . . . " she wrinkled her forehead in thought, "bolted the dog? Is that the expression?"

Castiel frowned fiercely at her. "I should hope that you would not bolt a dog! I can assure you, my father is most displeased by any instance of cruelty to animals."

"No, no! It is only an expression. It means, I believe, to err egregiously."

"Ah, I see. Well, it would be an egregious error to apply any sort of hardware to a dog." He thought about it. "Unless, of course, it was a mechanical dog. I saw a small child in a park with one once. It was doing odd little tricks and every time it flipped off the sidewalk, the child's mother screamed at the child to be careful with it because it was expensive. I did not understand then, and still do not, why one would wish to give a child a toy that could not be played with."

"Yes!" Ziva said. "I have often wondered the exact same thing! Oh, but perhaps it refers to applying bolts for veterinary purposes. Abby found a video on YouTube once of a dog that was born without back legs. People took up a collection to pay for its treatment and they were able to give it prosthetic back legs with wheels so it could get around. That would have required bolts. It would not have been an error, though."

"Perhaps it references a different meaning of the word 'bolt'?" Castiel suggested.

"That is possible! I know that we sometimes will say a suspect has 'bolted', meaning that they have become alarmed and taken flight."

"Yes, that makes much more sense! And the Winchesters, since you wish for them to cooperate with you, would be the 'dogs' that you do not wish to 'bolt'!"

"But why would they be referred to as 'dogs'?"

"Well, Dean frequently addresses Sam as 'bitch'. And he's referred to himself as a 'son of a bitch' more than once, though, when a demon once called his mother a bitch, effectively saying the same thing, he was most displeased. Then, too, there is another possibility. Sam frequently admonishes Dean for 'bolting' his food, meaning, I gather, 'to swallow it without chewing'. Although I can't imagine them ever becoming hungry enough to eat a dog."

"UNLESS," Ziva crowed, triumphantly, "it was a _hot dog_!"

"Of course," Castiel agreed. "And swallowing one without adequately chewing it could easily cause someone to choke and that _would_ be an egregious error!"

Ziva nodded decisively and she and Castiel shook hands.

"Now," she said, "where were we?"

"I believe you had agreed not to Simoniz me."

"Of course. Just let me read you your rights."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"Your lawyer is here," Special Agent Dorneget informed them, coming into the holding cell area with an escort of burly agents from other departments. "If you'll come with me, I'll take you to a conference room where you can speak with him."

Dean frowned. "We got a lawyer?"

Sam was already scowling, but for a completely different reason. Now he directed a distracted glare at his brother. "Um, yeah. Didn't I mention it? Mr. _Benjamin_ is representing us."

"Who?"

Sam gave him a look.

"Wha-? _Benny ?_ Here? Whose bright idea was that?"

"Apparently it was a collaborative effort. Can we wait and discuss this when we're alone?"

"Yeah, I suppose. Just, everybody do me a favor and keep him away from Abby Sciuto." He caught the look on his brother's face. "Well, hell!"

Dorneget and their escort led them back through the maze of corridors to a secure conference room.

"This room is soundproofed," Dorneget told them. "When you're ready to go back to your cells, knock on the door." He opened the door and let them in, then locked it behind them.

Benny was waiting, pacing nervously. When they came in he stilled and studied Dean carefully.

"You brought me flowers?" Dean asked sardonically.

Benny pulled the bouquet he was clutching back against himself and half turned away, like he was protecting it from them. "Hell, no! I keep telling you, y'ugly mug, yer not ma type." He turned back and turned serious. "Y'are a sight fer sore eyes, though, brothah."

"And you're a sight to make eyes sore! Dude, seriously! What the hell are you wearing? Where did you even get that outfit?"

Affecting a hurt look, Benny glanced down at himself. He was clad in a fitted waistcoat in an eye-watering geometric design with wide lapels, no collar, and lace at the cuffs. He wore it over a plum-colored turtleneck and a pair of tight bell-bottom jeans in mustard yellow. "I'll have you know this is high fashion," he said. "I got it on Carnaby Street, the last time I was in London." His voice turned sad and introspective. "Andrea picked it out."

"Andrea?" Sam asked.

"Long story," Dean said quietly. To Benny, he said, "so how is it you even have it still?"

"It was in a cache we had set up, in case we ever needed it. She knew about it, but she never raided it for our things." He sighed. "It was a powerful long time ago, I know that."

Dean moved in close to his friend, talking softly while Sam glowered and bristled in the background. "I just don't want to see you get hurt, man."

"He doesn't want me to get hurt," Benny scoffed. "This from the guy who, last I saw him, was wasting away like Beth in Little Women."

Dean accepted the change in subject graciously. "Dude! You read Little Women?"

"Course not! I saw the movie." Dean didn't react and Benny made to defend himself further. "I thought, from the title, it was porn."

"Yeah, okay. That's a good excuse."

"Benny, what are you doing here?" Sam demanded.

"I got worried. Cas came in and didn't come out again. And the last time I saw Princess here, he was all pale and fainting."

"Shaddup! I was not! He's here because he was hoping to see Abby."

"Okay, yeah. And I was hoping to see Abby. Though I guess it's probably best I don't, if I look as bad as what y'all're sayin' I do."

They were interrupted by a commotion outside that manifested itself in raised voices and a series of thuds on the door. After a moment the door swung open and Abby marched in looking triumphant with an apologetic Dorneget behind her.

"I just wanted to say hi to-" she saw Benny and broke off with a delighted shriek. "_Look_ at you! Oh my God! I _love_ retro kitsch! That is _so cool!_ You look adorable!"

Benny beamed at her and, if maybe he had a few too many teeth showing, she didn't pay any attention to it. "Miss Abby," he said, "will you allow me to present you with a small token of my esteem?" He offered her the bouquet. "I brought you white lilies, because any colors I could offer you, even the brightest red roses or the bluest of violets, would only pale in comparison to your brilliance."

Dean dropped into a chair and banged his forehead against the table.

"You could just let me gank him," Sam suggested softly.

"Dude, just don't right now, okay?"

"I'm just saying, it's a funny way to protect her, letting her flirt with a vampire."

"Sam!"

"Whatever."

Abby was taking her leave. "Just, when you're ready to go have someone call me and I'll walk you out, okay?"

"It will be my pleasure." Benny took her hand in an old-fashioned, courtly gesture and bent low over it.

Simpering with delight, she exited the room. Dorneget rolled his eyes and pulled the door closed behind them.

Alone once more, Benny turned back to the Winchesters. "She thinks retro kitsch is cool!" His smile faltered into uncertainty. "That's . . . good . . . _right_?"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

". . . and then Tony said, 'but pigs _don't_ fly!' and I said, 'well, obviously, if you put little helmets on them and stick them in the front of your bi-plane, they _do_ fly, otherwise there would not be a video on YouTube!'"

"Exactly!" Castiel agreed enthusiastically. "Like Dean! He often expresses a desire for someone to 'slap his ass and call him Shirley', but I can assure you that, if you comply, he will object most strenuously!"

The door to interrogation opened and Gibbs stuck his head in. "Ziver! Upstairs in ten."

"Oh! Right."

Gibbs came in all the way and pulled the door closed behind him. "What do you prefer to be called?" he asked the prisoner.

"My name is Castiel," the man told him, "though the Winchesters call me Cas. You may do so also, if you prefer."

"You know why you're here, Cas?"

"I'm here because you wanted to speak with me. You wish to know why the CIA is so eager to interview me." He caught the question in Ziva's eye. "Dean told me, when he prayed to me and asked me to come here."

"Right. Of course. Silly me."

"So, _do_ you know why the CIA is so eager to talk to you?" Gibbs asked. "We were wondering if it could have anything to do with some strange things that happened about a year and a half ago. Lepers being cured, evangelists dying . . . does the name Michelle Walker ring a bell?"

Cas cast his eyes down, looking thoroughly distraught. "I will have to talk to Dean before I answer any of those questions."

"Can't you just sort of commune with him mentally?"

"I think this is the sort of thing that would better be discussed in person." He looked from one agent to the other. "I believe I have the right to remain silent?"


	18. Clear and Present Danger

Chapter 18: Clear and Present Danger

Author's note: First, as always, thank you, everyone, so much for the reviews, favorites and follows! Also, apologies to everyone for calling Castiel "shorter than average"! I stand corrected (and duly chastised!) and I've added that to my list of things to fix when this epic is complete and I have a chance to edit it all.

Well, we've now had the season finales of both these shows. I have to admit that I haven't yet seen either. I'm still waiting for SPN to become available on Hulu and I'm going to have to work myself up to the NCIS episode, I think. (Please, someone tell me Ziva didn't really give Tony the "I think of you as a friend" speech! I mean, I'm not really a major shipper by any means, but I just re-watched "Truth or Consequences" and . . . for crying out loud! Really?) Anyway, I'm really psyched about season nine of Supernatural and I'm thinking about maybe setting a Jeremy Carver trap and kidnapping him and telling him he can only ransom himself by answering all my questions about the next season. Anybody with me?

Disclaimer: I'm not really going to kidnap Jeremy Carver (unless, of course, the opportunity presents itself).

Chapter 18

. . . .

"What do I tell them?"

Agent David had escorted Castiel up to the conference room where Dean and Sam waited, drinking coffee with Benny, and left him there while she attended a meeting. He had told them about the questions he'd been asked regarding his actions whilst a self-proclaimed god. Now he waited with bowed head and shoulders slumped.

"Do we got any idea what they know?" Dean asked.

"They remember the events that occurred and they suspect that I was involved, but they know very little. Apparently, all records of the things I did then have disappeared. The officers I spoke to are puzzled by that."

"They tell you that?"

"I listened to their thoughts," Cas admitted.

"When you say 'all records'," Sam asked, "do you mean, 'all computer records'?"

"All records. Even hard copy." Cas tipped his head inquisitively. "What is 'hard copy'?"

"Physical records. Paper print outs. Paper copies of newspapers." Sam frowned. "And you say they've all vanished? Who could do that even? God?"

"Gibbs believes it is the work of the CIA."

"If it is, then maybe Kort would know," Dean suggested. "They're having a big, multi-agency meeting about us, so he'd ought to be in the building right now. Why don't you go find him, Cas? Go in stealth mode and see what he's carrying around in that dirty little mind of his."

Cas popped out and popped back in less than thirty seconds later.

"It was the CIA," he announced. "They have the video of my attack on the campaign office and believe that I have access to a previously unknown weapon, which they now covet."

"Right. That figures. Okay," Dean said, "here's what we do. First, we tell them the 'God' stuff was Leviathans."

"But it was not," Cas objected.

"Coulda been. They were in there."

"Yes, but I was in control."

"That's debatable."

"What I did was my responsibility," the angel insisted.

"They don't get to judge you," Dean said, with steel in his voice and a touch of anger. "They weren't there. They didn't have any idea what was going on and they will never understand the choices you had to make."

"You judged me," Cas pointed out.

"Did I?"

"Did you not?"

"Maybe. We're all still here, aren't we?"

The angel's expression finally lightened. "So we are."

"I _would_ like to come up with an excuse for you to leave with Kort, though."

"Oh?" Cas' brow knitted in confusion. He looked at Dean for a moment, then his eyes widened in understanding. "Oh!"

"Mind readin's freaky," Benny complained.

"They have a profound bond," Sam said with a straight face.

Dean flung the few drops of coffee still in the bottom of his cup at his brother.

"So, what exactly are we doing here?" Sam asked. "Are we really considering giving the _government_ the whole 'the truth is out there' speech?"

Dean sat very still, staring at the wall. His eyebrows twitched. "Whaddya think they'll do if we do?" he asked.

"Uh, not believe us. Call us liars. Have us committed."

"What if we didn't give them a choice but to believe us? Hard core proof. Show and tell."

"Well, then, I suppose they'd . . . uh . . . I have no idea what they'd do."

"You don't think they'd call a big press conference? Warn the public to be wary of monsters and demons and vengeful spirits because the supernatural is real - and they know it is because a couple of wanted serial killers told them so?"

"No, of course not." Sam thought about it. "Hell, they'd probably be more secretive about it than we are. It'd be like The Emperor's New Clothes - no one would dare speak up for fear of being thought unsuitable for his or her job."

"That's what I'm figuring. We let the people at the top in on the big secret and they stand back and let us go so we can get back to doing our job and keeping them safe in their beds at night."

"Maybe." Sam shrugged. "I hope you're right."

"At this point, I don't see what other choice we have. We can escape, sure, but they have too much info on our friends, and on the Hunting community as a whole."

"They's not gon' jus' let go," Benny spoke up for the first time in a long time. "Dese boys an' girls're the alpha dogs. They's puppeteers and control freaks. They wouldn't _be_ at the top if they wasn't."

"They'll want us to report in," Sam guessed, trying to ignore the fact that he agreed with the vampire.

"That ain't happening," Dean said flatly.

"Actually," Sam countered, "it might be possible to work something out. Say, a monthly report schedule in exchange for access to government records and resources and maybe some sort of financing? And, I realize you want to keep NCIS out of it, but I gotta say, Dean, from what McGee's told me, Abby would make one hell of a researcher."

"And it would be great if we could get Ducky to do the occasional autopsy for us, but it would put them in danger. They do enough."

"I'll be Abby's bodyguard," Benny offered brightly. They ignored him.

"I doubt they will be satisfied with written reports," Cas said. "Based on my observations of human nature and my knowledge of the history of governments in general and the government of the United States in particular, I would speculate that they will want their own response teams."

Dean snickered suddenly. "Seal Team 666, specializing in terrorists, tea leaves and telekinesis."

"Would that be a bad thing?" Sam asked. "Professionally-trained, government-sanctioned Hunters?"

"Depends on if they try to regulate Hunting as a whole. If they just want to add a couple of elite teams into the mix, then I don't really see a down side. They couldn't possibly be any worse than some of the morons we've got Hunting now."

"How about if they want _us_ to be the ones training their Hunters?" Sam asked.

Dean smirked. "That's easy. We give 'em to Garth."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"We are now in SCIF mode," Vance announced. He turned to the Secretary of the Navy with a deferential nod, but SecNav gestured back at him.

"Your people caught the Winchesters, Leon. This is your show."

In addition to SecNav, the directors of the FBI, the CIA, the NSA and Homeland Security were present, as well as a selection of high-ranking agents from each agency, including Trent Kort and Tobias Fornell. There was also a nondescript man in a simple brown suit sitting quietly in a corner. He looked familiar, but Tony couldn't place him.

"Thank you, Mr. Secretary," Vance said. He turned his body slightly to address the room at large. "As most of you are aware, we successfully apprehended the Winchester brothers three days ago. This morning their associate, James Novak, turned himself in as well. On the night they were captured, Dean Winchester suffered a serious venomous snakebite and subsequently spent 24 hours in Bethesda, but he is back in the building now and seems to have made a full recovery. Indeed, his doctors assure me his recovery is nothing short of miraculous."

"Has anyone considered the possibility that there really was no snakebite and the whole thing was a sham to delay his questioning?" Kort asked, voice snide.

"It was a real snakebite," Ducky said firmly. "Mr. Palmer and I treated it and Miss Sciuto ran tests on the toxin in his bloodstream."

"I stand behind Dr. Mallard's assessment," Vance said. "In any case the question is moot. We captured the Winchesters for the express purpose of learning what they know about the SucroCorp conspiracy. Now that we have them, we have to determine how best to proceed. For years, law enforcement agencies, both local and federal, have assumed that the Winchesters were calculating criminals using the occult as an excuse for their activities. What we now believe, having spoken with them at length, is that their belief in the supernatural is genuine. Agent David, I believe it was, has compared it to a religion in which they are both devout followers."

"What are you saying, Vance?" one of the other directors asked.

"I'm saying that, if you ask them who is responsible for a given act and they reply that it is a 'vengeful spirit', for example, they are not just feeding you a line of bull. They genuinely believe that it is, in fact, a vengeful spirit. It's going to make it . . . interesting . . . trying to gather useful intelligence from them. The best suggestion I've heard so far, and one that I endorse myself, is Agent DiNozzo's recommendation that we treat it as though they are speaking a foreign language. We let them tell us the story in their own terms, then work on translating that into something we can run with."

"Have they given us anything at all, so far?" asked the director of Homeland Security.

Vance raised an eyebrow. "Gibbs?"

Gibbs adjusted his glasses and read off a lined yellow legal pad, holding it at arm's length and squinting. "The Leviathans were an ancient race of shapeshifting monsters, created before the dawn of time and locked away in Purgatory to keep them from destroying everything. They were released during a war in heaven, when one of the factions opened a doorway to Purgatory in search of weapons. Their leader took the physical form of the real Dick Roman and used his financial and social status to position them to take over the world. With their shapeshifting abilities, they were able to replace key individuals in the government and the media to help further their goals. They could be hurt with boric acid, but they were almost impossible to kill. However, most of their power resided with Dick Roman and once Dean, aided by the angel Castiel, ganked him -"

"Excuse me," the director of the NSA said. "Ganked?"

Gibbs brought the pad up close to his face, squinted at it with first one eye and then the other, then held it out and squinted at it again. "Yup. Ganked."

"Right. Ganked. Go on."

"-once Dean, aided by the angel Castiel, ganked Dick Roman, the remaining Leviathans became vulnerable. Dean and Castiel were caught in the backlash of their own weapon and wound up in Purgatory. It took them a year to fight their way out. The charges the Winchesters and their allies had set destroyed the product in the warehouse and the information on the computers and the Leviathans that were still in the building were slaughtered by demons, who showed up unexpectedly after the hard part was done."

"Demons," Kort said, voice flat.

"Demons," Gibbs agreed. He looked up from his notes. "Apparently the Leviathans saw the demons as vermin and had openly tried to exterminate them."

"And what sort of translation, exactly, do we get for all this?"

"You're up, DiNozzo," Gibbs said.

Tony sat up straighter and glanced at the open laptop in front of him, though he hardly needed his memory refreshed.

"We believe this organization first came to the attention of the Winchesters in St. Louis in October of 2005, when they stumbled across a field test of the terrorists' disguise technology. Abby tested a sample of the silicon substance that Dr. Mallard found in the fake Dean Winchester's coffin with boric acid and there was, in fact, a reaction."

"It fizzed and bubbled," Abby said. "Kind of like baking soda and vinegar do when you make a volcano, like in fourth grade?"

"Sometime around the fall of 2011 our 'Leviathan' ended their field tests and began operations in earnest, with their leader coming in personally to take over Dick Roman's life and direct their activities. This corresponded with a number of extreme weather events and a couple of unexpected close calls with meteors and we think the Winchesters took the increase in activity as a sign that a new type of monster had entered the game. The 'demons' we make as most likely an older, established terrorist group defending their territory - Al Qaeda or the Taliban perhaps. We believe that Dean Winchester and James Novak were injured by the blast that destroyed SucroCorp, captured by surviving conspirators and taken back to wherever their home base is. Given that they spent a year fighting their way out and don't seem to have been physically restrained most of that time, we're thinking either deep jungle somewhere or perhaps an off-the-charts island."

He paused and looked around at his audience. "We think that, by a combination of careful questioning and physical evidence, we might be able to pinpoint at least what part of the world the 'Leviathan' home base is located in."

"Physical evidence?" SecNav asked.

"They've been back for quite awhile now, so it's a long shot," it was Abby who answered, "but I'd like to strip Dean naked and search him for insect bites."

A female FBI agent snickered, then blushed and ducked her head under Fornell's pointed glare.

"Insect bites?" SecNav asked.

Abby nodded enthusiastically. "If he was bitten by anything while he was in Purgatory, and if the bites are still visible, I can find out what kind of insects they were. If we can figure out what kinds of bugs were there, we can check their habitat and get an idea of where 'there' is."

"And what have we promised the Winchesters in return for their cooperation?"

"We haven't made any specific promises," Gibbs said. "In general, we've promised to clear them of the crimes that we already know they didn't commit and to leave their associates out of the matter."

"That can't include Novak," Kort objected. "We get Novak or they get nothing!"

Gibbs tipped his head and regarded the big man. "James Novak is a radio ad salesman with a religious fixation and a dubious grasp of reality. Why exactly do you want him so badly?"

"Never you mind. That's the CIA's business."

"You're interfering with negotiations on a matter of national security," Fornell said. "I'd say that makes it all our business."

"We are aware of your interest regarding Novak," a new voice said. The man in the brown suit had spoken.

"Ladies and gentlemen," SecNav said, "I believe some of you know Jeremy Brightwell, special adviser to the president?"

Brightwell leaned forward and as simply as that, he was in charge.

"I understand the Winchesters have concerns about the dissemination of the information they possess?"

"Yes, sir," Gibbs said, reluctantly ceding authority to yet another suit. "They believe it is dangerous."

"Quite possibly with good reason. Take them this: We propose a question and answer session with the Winchesters and any of their associates they see fit to include. On the government side, those present will include myself, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and representatives from the CIA, NSA, and Homeland Security. No questions will be off the table and we will require access to any supporting documentation or physical evidence in their possession. We have selected these agencies because fighting terrorism is among their primary mandates. NCIS will not take part in the discussion, but you will be in charge of security for the meeting and will act as go-betweens as needed. If they feel the need for advocates, they can call you in, and we reserve the right to share any information they give us with anyone we see fit under the dictates of national security.

"It will not be possible to go public with any version of the truth about the Winchesters and their anti-terrorist activities, but we will concoct some cover story to clear their names. NCIS can take the lead in that as well. The CIA will take custody, immediately, of James Novak. You can assure the Winchesters that, when we are convinced that they have told us everything they know, he will be released unharmed."

"And when is this meeting to take place?" Gibbs asked.

"As soon as possible. Talk to the Winchesters. Find out what they need to bring along, if anything. Research, surveillance, anything like that. And then find out how long it will take to get it. If you need to take them in person to retrieve anything, only take one of them out of the building at a time. You did well capturing them. Now we're counting on you to keep them around to answer our questions, so that we can figure out what kind of a threat still exists from these 'Leviathans' and what we need to do about it."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

It was a measure of the seriousness of the discussion that no one commented on Benny's suit, though Tony and McGee both looked askance at him. Gibbs laid out the Brightwell's offer, leading with the fact that Kort had been authorized to take immediate custody of Novak, aka Castiel. To the agents' surprise, no one objected. Kort cuffed Novak's hands behind his back more roughly than was necessary and escorted him out, smug and triumphant. Novak was polite and cooperative and Dean Winchester actually seemed amused.

Gibbs wished he could see the humor in it himself. He disliked the idea of trusting the inoffensive young man to the CIA's tender mercies.

"We can't do it here, though," Dean said. "I'm not gonna bring this shit into your house."

"Don't think Uncle Sam's going to go for that," Gibbs warned. "They won't want to take a chance on the two of you finding a way to slip away from them."

"You can take any kind of precautions you want," Sam said, calm and reasonable. "Transport us in the back of an armored car. Cover our heads so we can't see where we're going. Sedate us even."

"And you can choose the place," Dean offered. "We'll tell you what we need, then you pick a spot, prepare any kind of security you like. You just have to get us there in time to put up wards before the meeting starts. We'll need spray paint, salt, candles, and something to use as an altar."

"An altar," Tony echoed. "So, like, what? A pulpit or something?"

"Just a level surface," Sam said. "One time I used a SpongeBob place mat. SpongeBob side down, of course."

"The building itself should be fairly large, one-story, mostly open and with a minimum of doors and windows. If you can seal any windows and all but the door we're using, that would be great. It needs good lighting and there should probably be a chair for everyone present, but no other furniture is necessary."

"Who besides the two of you do you want to be present?" Gibbs asked.

"Cas," they both said.

"And Benny," Dean added. Sam shot him an annoyed look but didn't contradict him.

"Anyone else?" Gibbs asked. "Garth? Jody Mills? Charlie Bradbury?" The brothers exchanged an alarmed look. "Yeah, we know about Charlie Bradbury. We're not gonna go after her. But, does she have computer files or anything from Dick Roman Enterprises that you need?"

"Nah," Dean said. "We're good."

"Nothing?"

"Let us lay it out for this Mr. Brightwell and his associates," Sam suggested. "Then, if they have questions or need more evidence, we can go from there."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

In a deserted mausoleum on the other side of Washington another meeting was taking place.

"So." Crowley smiled a bright little smile that would have had older, wiser demons fainting in terror. "We are approaching the conclusion of your brilliant little scheme. Let's take a moment to tally the costs, shall we?"

The demon who, in life, had been Pedro Hernandez, and the demon who, in life, had been serial killer Kyle Boone, stood at a slouched version of attention in front of him and shifted nervously.

"First, we had to sacrifice three astoundingly stupid but potentially useful terrorists just to set this whole thing in motion. The two Winchester look-a-likes you possessed in your ill-fated strike against the goth were very good at doing very bad things. They were bringing more darkness and evil to the world than any six low-level demons, but I was forced to kill them after they got dragged into your little scheme, lest they get captured and give away details about some of my more ambitious plans in the Mideast, in an attempt to save their own necks.

"You inspired Rocky and Bullwinkle to put iron around the NCIS building, thereby making an entire federal agency off limits to me and my operatives, and now, tomorrow night, the Winchesters are meeting with the president's adviser and the Joint Chiefs of Staff! Do you have any idea of the potential for disaster in this development? If they ward Congress, dozens of my most useful demons will be out of work! And what do I get out of it? WHAT! DO! I! GET! OUT! OF! IT?" He was shouting now. "You told me that Gibbs would take care of the Winchesters!"

"He did capture them," Boone ventured.

"He was supposed to kill them! He was _not_ supposed to exonerate them!"

Crowley stopped, breathing heavily, and made a visible effort to calm himself. "But, you know what? You know what? Really, none of this is your fault. It's not. And I don't want either of you to feel bad about it."

The two junior demons relaxed.

"No, it's my fault. I've rushed you. You're too young. I saw potential in each of you and, consequently, rushed you through the process. You simply haven't spent enough time in hell to season you into proper demons. Don't you agree?"

Hernandez and Boone nodded eagerly.

"Right." Crowley snapped his fingers and two much larger demons and a hell hound appeared. "Take these morons back downstairs and put them back on the rack for a couple hundred years. Each."

The two young demons backed away in horror as their grinning jailors closed in.

"Crowley, wait!" Boone called out in barely-controlled panic. "You still need us!"

"Still need you?" the king of hell jeered. "I never _needed_ you."

"You want a chance at the Winchesters! You know where they're going to be and when. You'll need a distraction. We know Gibbs like no one else. We know his patterns and we know his weaknesses. We can distract him for you, so you can get by and take out your targets."

Crowley thought about it.

"Give us another chance," Hernandez pleaded. "Just one more chance!"

At the last minute, Crowley held up his hand to stop the larger demons. He snapped his fingers again and they and their hell hound disappeared.

"All right, fine. One last chance, and I _mean_ last chance. As it stands, I've promised you two hundred years each on the rack. You take out Gibbs and let me get close enough to end Moose and Squirrel and I'll consider cutting that down. Screw up again and I'll double it. Now get out of my sight!"

Boone and Hernandez disappeared in twin clouds of red light and sulfur. Another figure, one that had been standing in shadow off to one side, approached deferentially. It was an elder demon, more powerful than many, and one of the many lackeys that a being in power inevitably collects.

"Do you really expect them to kill this man, Gibbs, and his people?" the demon asked.

"Not at all," Crowley said. "But Gibbs has been a pain in my ass since we first started this ridiculous project. The least he can do for me is take out my trash.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

In Abby's lab, Director Vance and Gibbs' team clustered around behind her as she pulled up security video on her computer.

"The guard at the gate says that Kort left at 14:29. His car should be right . . . about . . . here!" The nondescript black sedan stopped at the exit to the Navy Yard. The camera clearly showed Kort driving and James Novak sitting quietly in the backseat, hands cuffed behind him. Kort showed his badge to the guard on duty, was passed and drove away.

Vance nodded, satisfied. "That settles it." He pulled out his phone, dialed and waited a moment for someone to pick up. "Mr. Secretary? Yes, sir. We have security video of Trent Kort leaving the Navy Yard with Novak handcuffed in the back of his car. . . . No, sir, I don't, but if you'd like, I'll ask them." He tucked the phone against his shoulder and addressed the team. "Do any of you have any suggestions as to what might have happened?"

They all muttered no and shook their heads.

"No," Tony said, and grinned brightly, "but I'm really looking forward to hearing Kort explain to Jeremy Brightwell how he managed to lose his prisoner between here and the CIA building!"


	19. Truth or Dare

Author's Note: Hello everyone and thanks as always for the reviews, favorites and follows! Sorry this chapter is so late. It's Memorial Day weekend and I work in retail in a lake town, so I haven't had the time or energy for much of anything else this week. Before we get started, I wanted to clear up a couple of things some people have asked about.

First, the "quote" from Albertus Magnus back when they were doing the hydra cure - I totally made that up. I'm a writer. Writers lie. We're like demons, only nicer.

Second, I figure the Winchesters' official status would be that they're witnesses in protective custody. They can leave any time they want to, with the understanding that if they leave they'll be arrested and charged and their friends are apt to be arrested and charged with various crimes too.

Finally, the new demon in the last chapter was nobody. It was just another character that I put there so Crowley would have someone to have that conversation with. (Why does that remind me of the old "you're so ugly, when you were a kid your momma had to tie a pork chop around your neck to get the dog to play with you" joke?)

Disclaimer: I did not kill any rude customers this weekend, but I might have put a hex on one or two.

. . . .

Chapter 19: Truth or Dare

. . . .

"It's a criminal offense to tamper with the security video from a federal law enforcement building."

"What offense would that be, exactly?"

"It's . . . uh . . . I don't know exactly. I haven't looked it up yet. But I will, if you don't just admit that you did it!"

Abby's eyes grew moist and her lower lip trembled. "You'd do that?" she demanded, clearly hurt. "You'd actually start an investigation and try to get me fired and maybe even arrested just to prove that you're right and to be able to say 'I told you so'?"

McGee sighed and wondered how this conversation had spiraled out of control so quickly. It wasn't even like they were talking in private. They were in the middle of the bullpen, with Tony and Ziva glaring at him and Gibbs watching with a clear warning in his eyes.

"Of course not," he said, suddenly exhausted. "I just want you to admit that you did it. I know it was you, Abby. It had to be you. Nobody else is good enough."

She wasn't appeased by the implied compliment.

"It wasn't me, McGee!" she hissed furiously, stamping her foot. "If you were my friend, you'd believe me when I tell you that!"

"So, what?" he snapped back. "I'm supposed to believe that _this_ is what really happened?"

He gestured with the remote control and they all turned to look at the plasma. It showed the empty bullpen in the wee hours of the morning they'd captured the Winchester brothers. A giant peanut, wearing a monocle and top hat and carrying a cane, strolled across the room, set a jar down on McGee's desk, waved at the camera and vanished.

"I did it," Tony said suddenly.

McGee rolled his eyes and sighed again. "Excuse me?"

"The . . . " Tony waved his hand vaguely towards the screen. "The thing. I did it. I, uh, buffered the pixels and scrubbed the . . . uh . . . whatsis and photoshopped the video."

"No offense, Tony, but you don't have the skills."

"I had help." He was clearly improvising.

"Who?" McGee demanded.

"Um . . . I don't know. But I'll think of something."

"I helped him," Ziva volunteered.

"I'm not buying it, guys."

"Your choice," Tony said nonchalantly. "Either we're a lot smarter than you think we are, or you just got pranked by a six-foot-tall peanut. In evening wear, no less."

"Okay, fine! I give up. Everything's real and I got pranked by Mr. Peanut. Are you happy?"

"Good," Gibbs said. "Now, if that's settled, do you think we can maybe get a little work done?"

"Please!" Abby said. "I'd like to get done on time tonight, if at all possible. I have a date with Benny."

"The guy in the funny clothes?" Tony asked, and got a mild glare for his trouble.

"He's adorable," Abby insisted. "We're going to a Creole joint I know and eat gumbo and dance the Zydeco."

"Don't keep him out too late," Gibbs warned. "We need him here early in the morning so he can go with us to the Winchesters' big meeting with the top brass."

"Yeah," Tony bitched, "and it still burns my biscuits that Kort gets let in on the big secret meeting and we don't!"

"Anything we need to know, we'll find out," Gibbs said complacently. "In the meantime, we've got a couple of jobs to do. First of all, give me a report on our preparations for the meeting."

"Seal Team Six has completed an advance scouting mission and verified that the selected location is secure. They've delivered the spray paint, rock salt, and candles the Winchesters requested. I've got the alter." Tony held up a SpongeBob placemat. "Sam said it would work," he reminded them, when they gave him odd looks.

McGee cleared his throat. "There are going to be a total of thirty-seven people attending the meeting, not counting the Winchesters and Benjamin. I think we can count Novak out, since Kort couldn't keep hold of him and even if he wanted to attend, there's no way he'd be able to find us. Twenty-two of the attendees are going to be officials, staff members from the Office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, or agents from one of the three agencies represented. The other fifteen are high-security-cleareance bodyguards. All thirty-seven of them are currently en route. In order to minimize the chance for the Winchesters to escape or be captured, we will take them to Anacostia-Bolling Air Force Base by armored transport at 4 AM tomorrow morning, where seven F15 Eagle fighter jets will be waiting to fly the four of us, the two Winchesters, and their so-called lawyer to the meeting site. The rear-seat controls will be locked out, of course, in the planes carrying Benjamin and the Winchesters."

"Once we reach our destination," Ziva said, "we don't expect any human interference, for obvious reasons. However, the four of us will remain on guard outside the only entrance to the building where the meeting is taking place while Seal Team Six will secure the broader perimeter."

"_Human_ interference?" Tony prompted, eyebrows raised.

"Indeed. Unfortunately, we're going to be in the path of a tropical storm system. Plan on getting wet, everyone. We should arrive safely before it moves in, but once we are there we will have to wait for it to pass before we can leave."

"Also," Abby looked around at each of them, her expression turning just a bit sulky when she got to McGee, "I've promised the Winchesters that I'll ward each of you against demon possession."

"What's this gonna involve, Abs?" Gibbs asked. "More post-it notes?"

She pulled out a handful of thin sheets of paper, each the size of an index card. "I made you all temporary tattoos. They'll last several days unless you take them off deliberately. And maybe, later, you could all consider getting them done for real?" She smiled a big smile.

"Don't hold your breath," Gibbs told her dryly. "Where do they go?"

"The best place is over your heart. Either on your chest or your back will do."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows.

"I got mine on my chest," she continued. "You wanna see?"

"Yes!" Tony said.

"Yes!" McGee said.

"No." Gibbs said very firmly. The two younger agents pouted like children.

"How do you put these on? Been a long time since I've put on a temporary tattoo."

McGee's eyebrows climbed towards his receding hairline. "You've worn temporary tattoos before, Boss?"

"I didn't say I put 'em on me, McGee. Kelly liked them."

The bullpen went quiet. It was rare that Gibbs spoke of his long-lost family.

"My Little Pony?" Tony asked, with a gentle smile.

"Strawberry Shortcake. They smelled like strawberries. So whaddya do, Abs? Do you need an iron or something?

"An _iron_? God, no! That would be painful. No, you just get your skin wet and then press it down firmly and let it sit for a minute."

Gibbs shrugged, handed his tattoo back to her, turned his back and pulled up his shirt.

"You want it on your back, then?"

"Already got a tattoo on my chest."

"_Really?_ Cool! Can we see?"

"No."

"Okay then . . . I need water and, um, a washcloth or something."

Ziva contributed a bottle of water and McGee had a roll of paper towels in his bottom drawer. While Abby was applying the tattoo to Gibbs' back McGee sent off a quick email to Tony and Ziva.

_How come Gibbs let Abby talk him into an anti-possession tattoo?_

Ziva just shrugged but Tony typed a reply to them both.

_I think somehow she reminds him of Kelly._

The other two nodded, because it made a lot of sense.

_You realize we're all going to have to have those tattoos now?_ Ziva sent.

_I'll help you with yours._ Tony offered quickly.

_Thank you. That's very generous of you. But I would not want you to stroke out on the eve of such an important mission._ She gave him a tight smile and turned to the forensic tech. "If you've finished with Gibbs, Abby, would you do me?"

"Certainly," Abby beamed. "Why don't we go somewhere more private?"

As they left the bullpen, headed for the ladies' room, Ziva frowned. "Why is Tony hyperventilating?"

"He hasn't gotten his morning headslap yet."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS , , , Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Their names were Frank and Jason and Ned Campbell. Frank and Jason were identical twins and were dead ringers for you, Dean. Ned bore a striking resemblance to Sam - one which he enhanced with make-up."

"Dude!" Dean snickered at his brother. "Evil you wore makeup! That's so fitting!"

"Shut up! Jerk!"

"Bitch."

The brothers ducked with the force of dual head slaps.

"Just get in the transport," Gibbs ordered. "It's too early in the morning for this."

"Somebody's not a morning person," Dean snarked, but he climbed into the armored transport behind his brother. Benny followed and the three younger NCIS agents crowded in behind them. Gibbs handed up cardboard cup holders containing half a dozen Styrofoam cups. "Tell me that's coffee and all's forgiven," Dean said.

Tony passed him a cup and he took a deep drink and sighed.

"Good?" Sam asked. He took his own cup and sampled it. "Not bad!"

Gibbs slammed the doors and locked them, going to ride in the front with the driver. McGee went back to explaining the cover story they were inventing to clear the Winchester's names.

"The way we're going to tell it, you didn't even know the Campbell's existed. Your grandparents both died before your parents were married and your father didn't keep in touch with that side of your family after your mother's death. Jason was the killer you shot in St. Louis, and it was just a random coincidence that the two of you happened across their crime spree. When you did, because of your unique upbringing you attributed the murders to a supernatural being. The Campbells, though, figured out who you were and the two who survived set out to ruin your lives in revenge for Jason's death."

"And you think people are going to buy this?"

"Believe me," Tony said dryly, "we've sold the public stranger things over the years."

"Abby's doing deep background on all three of them, including disciplinary reports from schools they attended, sealed juvenile records, criminal records, the works. By the time we get done explaining this, no one's going to think either of you is a cold-blooded murderer anymore."

"Of course," Tony said, "they're apt to think you're nuts. Believing in ghosts and demons and monsters, after all."

"Yeah, well, people -" Dean broke off with an enormous yawn. "Man! This coffee isn't waking me up at all! I feel like I could sleep for a week." He yawned again, blinked rapidly, shook himself, then started to slump. "Dude. I don't feel so hot."

Tony calmly reached over and took Dean's coffee. "Catch," he said.

Sam handed his own coffee off to McGee and caught his brother as he slipped unconscious to the transport floor. He shot the feds an angry, questioning look. In the dim light of pre-dawn, Benny's eyes glinted dangerously.

Tony lifted Dean's coffee cup as in a salute. "De-caff," he said, "heavily laced with sedatives."

"You drugged our coffee?"

"Just Dean's. A little bird mentioned to Ziva that your brother doesn't like to fly. We thought he'd be more comfortable if he slept through the next leg of our journey."

"We're going on a plane?"

"Not _a_ plane. Not exactly."

The transport rolled to a stop. It shook a little as the cab doors opened, Gibbs and the driver alighted, and then the doors slammed shut. A moment later the door at the back opened and Sam looked across the tarmac at the first of a line of fighter jets.

"_Seriously_?"

Gibbs and DiNozzo pulled him out of the transport, escorted him across the pavement and got him installed in the second seat.

"You ever ridden in one of these before?" Gibbs asked, yelling to be heard above the engine as he fitted a helmet over Sam's long hair.

Sam shook his head no.

"Well _he_ -" Gibbs pointed an emphatic thumb at the pilot, "has. So slip your handcuffs if you have to, but for God's sake, leave the controls alone."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

The planes took off one by one, circled until they were all in the air, then flew in formation south and west. By the time they arrowed down, pierced a layer of cloud cover and landed on an abandoned-looking runway, Sam was grinning like a little kid.

His plane had been the first to take off and the last to land - a sensible precaution since he was the only Winchester standing. He jumped down from the plane and followed Ziva over to where the whole group, pilots included, was standing around Dean, slumped on the edge of the landing strip, blinking sleepily.

Gibbs, standing behind him, leaned over and barked in a drill-sergeant voice. "What is your _problem_, Marine? Are you gonna sleep all day? Up and at 'em! Rise and shine! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut!"

Dean jumped, blinked, and glared at the crowd standing around grinning at him. "Woah! That coffee sucks. What the hell?"

Sam took the opportunity to loom over his brother and smirk down at him. "Dude! You got BA'd!"

Dean just stared at him, uncomprehending. "Huh?"

"BA'd! The A Team? Mr. T?"

Dean looked around, caught sight of the line of planes and scuttled crab-like back away from them. "Oh, hell no! I am so not getting on one of those things!"

"Of course you're not," Gibbs said calmly. "You just got off one." He handed the elder Winchester a cup of coffee. "Here. This is the good stuff."

Dean latched onto the coffee like a drowning man would latch onto a life raft. He gulped long and deep, then paused to look around at the barren runway, the distant glint of sunlight on water and the leading edge of storm clouds, moving in with flickers of lightning and the threatening growl of thunder.

"Where the hell are we?"

"Gentlemen," Gibbs said, "welcome to Johnston Atoll, former U.S. military base; once the site of atomic weapons testing, rocket tests, and hazardous wastes disposal."

"Yeah, but don't worry," DiNozzo said. "All that's gone now. Well, except for some irradiated dirt. Just avoid the irradiated dirt and you'll be fine."

"Your audience is due in less than an hour," Gibbs continued. "Shall we go get ready to receive them?"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

The trio of Gulfstream jets carrying the government party arrived forty-three minutes later, just after Ziva, checking the weather on her smart phone, confirmed that the tropical storm had been unexpectedly upgraded to a category 1 hurricane and had switched course, taking direct aim at the atoll.

Gibbs met the dignitaries on the landing strip.

"Our pilots have already gone on to Pearl to wait out the storm. I suggest yours do the same. If they leave now, they should make it with no problem. I'm going to recommend we send the Seals back with them. There's nothing coming in through this storm and it'd be dangerous to have them out in the open."

Brightwell shook his hand, leaned in close to be heard over the airplane engines and the rising wind. "Is this your idea of revenge for being left out of the loop? You set up a meeting in the middle of a hurricane?"

"You said you wanted a secure location, sir," Gibbs shouted back. "How much more secure can you get?"

"You'll have to tell me later how you got the weather to cooperate! Gibbs, are we going to get washed away or blown off this rock?"

"Nah. Won't be the first big storm this chunk of real estate has seen. We're set up in an empty chemical weapons storage bunker. The Winchesters are waiting for you, whenever you're ready."

"Then let's get on with it! I've been looking forward to this."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . _

"I want the girl," Boone said. "I know just how to treat a lady."

"Yes, I'm aware of how you treated ladies," Hernandez said. "Tied them up and beat them up. Cut out their tongues and carved hearts on their bodies."

"It's the little, extra touches that make it special."

"Whatever. Just so long as we kill the three younger ones first. I want Gibbs to see their bodies. I want Gibbs to watch them die."

The two demons had new meat suits - a pair of particularly depraved men who'd sold their souls to not get captured during their decade-long rape and murder spree. Their contracts had come due the night before and they'd gladly handed over their bodies to Boone and Hernandez rather than face the hellhounds.

Without warning Crowley materialized in front of them.

"Ready then?" he asked mildly.

Remembering his sudden, fierce temper, the two junior demons simply nodded. The king of hell snapped his fingers and the three were transported to a rocky, barren landscape, standing beside the only building visible in any direction. Behind them the land sloped down to a beach, looking out over a choppy, roiling ocean. The day was murky with the onrushing storm, morning almost dark as dusk.

Boone and Hernandez staggered and fought to keep their footing.

"Madre Dios!" Hernandez said. "What is this force that is attacking us?"

"Madre Dios?" Crowley echoed incredulously. "Did you really just call on the mother of God?"

"What? I - no! No! I - it's just an expression."

"Yes, well, I'll thank you to watch your language from now on. That force, children, is something called 'gale force winds'. Perhaps you've heard of them?"

"It's just the wind?" Boone asked. "What the hell?"

"There!" Crowley pointed at Boone and addressed Hernandez. "See? 'What the hell.' Much more appropriate response! And now you're wondering why it's blowing you around and not me. That would be because I'm _much_ more powerful than you pathetic losers." He tapped the wall beside them. "Okay, so the Winchesters are in here, about to explain the facts of life to a whole lot of people who really don't need to be burdened with them. Gibbs and his people are that way," he pointed, "guarding the only entrance. This bunker is officially made of steel-reenforced concrete, but whoever actually made it slipped a fair amount of iron in as well. So, I can't go through the walls. Originally it had an iron door, but that was replaced several decades ago, so if you can draw off the Brady Bunch, I should be able to slip in and disrupt the meeting, hopefully before too much damage is done. Any questions?"

Hernandez and Boone shook their heads. Even if they'd had questions, they were much too intimidated to ask them.

"Good," Crowley said. "So . . . sic 'em! And remember . . . _last chance!_"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

The inside of the bunker was heavily-fortified, brightly-lit with lights powered by a portable generator, decorated with arcane symbols on every available surface, and contained nothing but one chair per person. The audience was grouped at one end of the bunker. Half a dozen of the bodyguards were stationed in front of the door and Dean and Sam stood off to one side.

"Hey, everybody," Dean opened proceedings informally while Sam, standing beside him, sighed and shook his head. "Can everyone hear me okay?"

He waited while everyone nodded and murmured in the affirmative, then singled out Kort.

"Yo, Trent! I thought you were gonna bring Cas! Where is he?"

"Very funny, Winchester. I _will _find your little friend again and when I do he'll rue the day he ever dared run from me."

"Oooh!" Dean made a show of shivering in mock terror. "I'm almost scared. Whaddya bet I find him first?"

"And how do you propose to do that?"

In answer, Dean looked up and shouted. "Yo! Cas! Showtime! Get your feathery ass down here already!"

Sam was watching the audience so he saw the exact moment that their various expressions - boredom, amusement, annoyance - gave way to pure shock.

Cas stood before them, in the middle of the formerly empty space. The electric lights dimmed, then brightened, then all but one exploded. Thunder rumbled through the building, louder than the storm outside. Lightning flashed across windowless walls and suddenly the mild-looking radio ad salesman was a powerful and eldritch being with glowing blue eyes who cast a winged shadow against the old cement.

The armed body guards reacted on instinct, as armed body guards tend to do, emptying their guns into this strange creature that had appeared from nowhere.

"Crap!" Dean pushed Sam down and shouted, trying to be heard over the gunfire. "Stop it you morons! Concrete walls! The bullets will ricochet!"

Whether they heard him or simply ran out of ammo, the firing stuttered to a stop. Castiel still stood there, looking at them reproachfully. He held out his arms and his trench coat hung open, riddled with bullet holes. He spat out a couple of bullets and emptied a light rain of spent slugs from his pockets.

"You damaged my coat," he said. "That was impolite." He closed his eyes for a bare second and the fabric remade itself.

"Dude," Dean said, "did you have to blow the lights? I don't suppose anybody's got any spare bulbs?"

Cas made a face, an almost childish mixture of contrition and annoyance. "I'm sorry. I didn't expect them to be so fragile." He waved one hand absently in their direction and the shattered glass flew up off the floor and became whole, working lights again.

The officials in the room gasped audibly. Under the babble of amazement, Sam pulled himself up and growled at his brother.

"What the hell, Dean?"

"What what the hell?"

"What did you push me down for?"

"Uh, gee, I don't know. Maybe to save you from the bullets flying around the room?"

"Okay, so why didn't you duck yourself?"

"Um . . . no time. Anyway, I think Cas caught all the bullets. Nobody seems to have gotten shot. Not even Kort. Damn it."

"We're _going_ to talk about this later," Sam threatened, then turned and took over emcee duties. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Castiel. He is an angel of the Lord. We met him when he pulled a righteous man out of hell. That man was my brother, Dean. Dean and I are Hunters - we track down and take out supernatural creatures that endanger humans. Dean likes to say it's the family business - saving people, hunting things. We grew up in the life after our mother was murdered by a demon, when I was six months old and Dean was four. The two of us and Cas, with the help of many other Hunters, most of whom are dead now, have averted the Apocalypse twice and stopped an infestation of ancient shapeshifting monsters called Leviathans from taking over the world."

"These 'Leviathans', those would be the force behind SucroCorp?" The voice from the back of the crowd was surprisingly calm. The brothers scanned the crowd and picked out the speaker, a nondescript man in a plain brown suit.

"Yes, sir," Dean said, "Mr., uh . . . ?"

"Brightwell. Jeremy Brightwell. Special adviser to the president. And are the Leviathans all gone now? Is there any way to be sure?"

"Oh, they're not all gone. We got hunters tracking them whenever we can find a trace of them. We killed their leader and the ones left are a lot easier to take down, but we still haven't found any way to kill them. Best we can do is cut 'em up in pieces and bury the pieces in cement in different states. We think it's possible they eventually starve to death, but we're not about to dig one up to see."

"Anything can be killed," Kort stated.

"Be more than happy to let you try," Dean said. He turned to Cas. "You got one?"

"I have located one, yes," Cas said. "It is hungry, as it hasn't dared to eat for months. Are you sure you want me to bring it here?"

Dean nodded once, briefly. Cas disappeared and returned before the startled gasps had died down. He had with him a small, meek-looking elderly lady with granny glasses and her hair in a gray bun.

"That's a monster?" the CIA agent mocked.

Dean got him by the arm. "Hey, granny," he called. "Want a snack?" He pushed Kort towards the old woman. Her face changed, eyes deforming, face slowly distorting.

Kort had not fired his weapon when Cas appeared. He did now, emptying the clip in the old woman's head and chest. She came on, stalking towards him purposefully with a manic grin, ignoring the gruesome wounds in her body that bled black. The crowd around them scattered, clinging to the walls and leaving a wide arena in the center for this macabre game to play out. With his clip empty, Kort let the gun drop and pulled a knife from some hidden recess among his clothing. He buried it in her eye. She grabbed his arm and lifted him off his feet. He head _melted,_ face becoming some ancient, inhuman, shark-like thing with a huge tongue reaching for his head.

And then, suddenly, Kort was bathed in black goo and it was over. The thing's body twitched at his feet, rolled itself over and began to crawl blindly around the floor. Dean Winchester stood behind it, holding the head by its hair, bloody machete casually dangling from one hand.

"Notice," he said, "that it's still not actually dead, per se. Cas?"

"I've got it," the angel said. He took the head gingerly and disappeared, then reappeared to fetch the body and take it away.

Kort stalked over to Dean, wiping the goo from his face, as menacing as he could be. "You ass!" he spat. "Do you think you're funny?"

Dean met him, face to face. Looked him in the eye. "I think you should be glad I'm only 98% certain that you're the sorry son of a bitch who tried to kill DiNozzo."

The rest of the attendees milled around, shocked and shaken.

"This is what we call our 'the truth is out there' speech," Sam said. "You all might want to sit down for this."

Murmuring among themselves, the assembly did as he suggested.

Dean caught Brightwell by the arm when he would have moved away. "You're taking this awfully calmly," he said.

"Yes, I am, aren't I?" Brightwell smiled suddenly. "My maternal grandmother's name was Ezra Moore. She owned a tailor shop in Canton, Ohio. I believe you met?"

"Ezra -? Wait! Eliot Ness' Ezra?"

"The same." He offered Dean his hand. "It's an honor, Untouchable. I've been waiting for a chance to meet you my whole life."

"So you already knew? About Hunting and the supernatural and all of this?"

"Of course. I grew up with it, too."

"So why are we here?"

"Because these people need to know. The world is a dangerous place and getting more so all the time. Their job is to protect our country. Knowledge is power. They need this power. Even if it's only a matter of knowing when to stay out of the way."

Dean considered this, found it an acceptable explanation. "Well, all right, then." He turned back to his brother. "Sam? You're up."

Sam set up the altar (SpongeBob side down) and the candles and performed a ritual to summon any spirits that were present. A brilliant light grew in the middle of the room and coalesced into the form of a beautiful woman in a business suit and shoulder holster. When she had fully formed, she stepped forward and addressed the gathering.

"Hello. My name is Special Agent Caitlin Todd. I am, or rather, _was_, an NCIS special agent. I died in the line of duty seven years ago. I am here today to help answer your questions about what lies beyond."

. . .

Author's Note Two: Okay, so I was going to do the NCIS - demon showdown in this chapter too, but the first part stretched on longer than I'd intended and if I try to write that scene too, I'm going to wind up rushing it and not do it justice. We're almost to the end of this story. I had thought one more chapter, but there might be two since I'm ending this one earlier than I meant to. I'm looking at doing a sequel eventually, but one that's more AU, so I have a bit more freedom to play around with the story. Anyway, that's all for this chapter. I'll have the next by this time next week, if not before.


	20. War Games

Chapter 20: War Games

Author's Note: I'd like to thank eveyone again, seriously, from the bottom of my heart, for your support in the form of reviews, follows and favorites. Your response has simply blown me away. When I started this, I was hoping for maybe a couple dozen reviews. There are now over 900! Six-hundred-and-sixty-four people are following this story and 461 of you have listed it among your favorites. That's amazing to me and, to be honest, a little intimidating. We're approaching the end of the story now (this is the second-to-last chapter) and I'm afraid it's inevitable that I'll disappoint some of you. In fact, I believe I already have. However, I hope that most of you will be satisfied with the ending I've been working towards and will feel that the ride has been worth while. Again, thank you all so much for reading my story.

A special thanks to SkyHighFan for help with the canon on demons. :)

Disclaimer: I have no specific knowledge of the plutonium debris, chemical weapons residue, nor sarin gas buried on Johnston Atoll. If there are any lost ink pens there, though, they're probably mine.

. . .

Chapter 20: War Games

. . .

The abandoned chemical weapons storage bunker where the Winchesters' meeting with government representatives was taking place had a single entrance, slightly larger than a standard door. This was set inside a fortified courtyard, just wide enough for a truck to back into, with gray stone walls on the sides and a titanium steel gate closing off the opening.

The courtyard had no roof and, though the walls provided some protection from the direct onslaught of the storm, the four NCIS agents huddled in front of the door were soaked to the skin. Cyclonic winds, gusting inside the enclosure, alternately pushed them against the concrete wall of the bunker and pulled them away, making it hard to keep their feet under them. The rain came down like they were standing under a waterfall. Lightning lit the sky in nearly continuous flashes and the gale howled around the building like a banshee. A pair of palm trees visible through the bars in the gate whipped and tossed madly, threatening to rip loose and fly away at any second.

"Remind me again," Ziva shouted over the noise of the storm, "why it was a good idea to have this meeting _here_ and _now_?"

"Ask McGilligan," Tony shouted back. "It was his idea."

McGee huffed and managed to top the category one hurricane with category two annoyance. "They wanted isolated and inaccessible," he said. "This is as isolated and inaccessible as I could come up with. And it was only supposed to be a tropical storm and even that wasn't supposed to actually hit us!"

"Tell that to the hurricane," Ziva called.

"What do you think it would take for them to let us wait this out inside?" Tony asked.

Gibbs' mouth twisted in annoyance, though it was unclear whether he was annoyed with the question or with the answer he had to give.

"We don't have clearance," he said. "SecNav's made it very clear that this is as close as we get to the big 'show and tell'."

"How about if I promise to close my eyes and put my fingers in my ears?" Tony persisted. "I'll go 'la-la-la' and everything!"

"We have to guard the door," McGee reminded them with a stubborn stoicism.

"Against what?" Tony shot back. "Flying coconuts? A concussed seagull?"

There was a brief lull in the storm and Ziva's quiet voice echoed oddly in the sudden silence.

"How about two armed men who just appeared out of nowhere on a remote island in the middle of a hurricane?"

They followed her gaze over to the gate, where two big men stood, holding ugly handguns and smiling at them with evil intent. The storm returned with renewed vigor as the man on the left raised his weapon and fired at them. The four agents ducked, but the rain of bullets didn't come anywhere near them, clattering harmlessly off to their right.

"Idiots!" Gibbs hissed. "Don't try taking any long shots in this wind," he yelled to his own team. "You're as apt to hit each other as you are your target."

The second man was busy doing something to the gate. It popped open as he yanked on it, but a strong gust caught it as he pulled and knocked him backwards off his feet.

Ignoring his partner, the first man slipped through the opening and approached the agents like a stalking predator.

Gibbs wedged himself into the doorway, gun in one hand and the Winchesters' knife in the other. The man waved his hand and, as if he had commanded it, the storm winds shifted direction. A gale circled the perimeter of the courtyard, pulling at Gibbs clothes and body. Ziva slid away to his right while Tony and McGee were picked up and slammed into the wall on his left.

Held against the wall by the force of the wind, Tony managed to pull his gun. Gibbs could see his trigger finger working as he fired again and again, but the intruder, at near point blank range, did not go down. Either DiNozzo's gun was jammed or the winds were preventing even close-range shots from hitting their target. All he managed to do was to get the man's attention.

The intruder turned on him, knocked his gun out of his hand, grabbed Tony's arm and twisted. Gibbs couldn't hear any sound over the noise of the storm, but he could see his senior field agent's face go dead white, and his mouth open in a scream that was torn away by the wind.

Tony and his attacker were to Gibbs' left. The wind was pushing him to the right. Ziva, going with the wind, was approaching the man from behind. Before she could reach him, though, the second man, using the gate to drag himself up and pull himself into the scant shelter of the courtyard, intercepted her.

He tackled her to the pavement. She flipped him away from her, fighting like a wet cat, but he caught at her ankle as she crawled away, trying desperately to get to Tony. He pulled her back across the slippery asphalt that paved the courtyard and lay full-length on top of her, using his greater weight to pin her down. With an evil leer, he tossed aside his own gun and drew a long, thin knife from a sheaf on his belt. Lightning flashed along its edge, sharp as a razor, as he lowered it towards her breast.

The first man had his own gun out. He put the barrel against Tony's chest, directly over the agent's heart, and turned his head to look into Gibbs' eyes.

Gibbs felt a shudder of horror go through him at that look. He felt he was looking in the face of true evil - an evil that was tangible and personal and familiar.

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"Do you think they'll actually manage to get them all four away from the door?" The demon lackey had a name, but Crowley couldn't be bothered to remember it.

"Perhaps. I doubt it, but I suppose it could happen. Doesn't really matter one way or the other, though."

The two stood at a distance, watching the fight taking place in the courtyard of the old storage bunker.

The lackey blinked in confusion. "But the door . . . you said . . . ?"

"Hello? King of hell? I lied. The last thing I'm going to do is walk through that door. Are you crazy? The Winchesters will have it fortified like Fort Knox. Better, if I know them."

"So are you going to disrupt the meeting? You said the walls were built with iron. Or was that a lie too?"

"Oh, no. Iron indeed. All four walls _and_ the ceiling. Too bad for them they forgot to do the floor, too."

"So you're going up through the floor?"

"Rising up from the bowels of hell. Seems appropriate, dunnit? The trick is figuring out where it's safe to rise up from the bowels of hell." Crowley sighed and smiled in a self-satisfied manner. "I do love technology."

"I'm sorry. I don't follow, my lord."

"Ooh. My lord. I like that. Very posh," the little demon king preened. "How long have you been a demon, then?"

"Since the fall of Constantinople."

"Long time downstairs. You're probably not familiar with bugs, then."

"Bugs, m'lord? As in a plague of insects? Or the diseases sent by Pestilence?"

"As in miniaturized spy cameras. I possessed one of the crew members on the V.I.P. jet and slipped a bug in among one of our general's medals and ribbons." He pulled out a smart phone and turned it on. "Now, I just need to examine the feed to see where, exactly, Moose and Squirrel have put their wards and Devil's Traps."

"Then, m'lord, if I may inquire, so as to learn from my betters . . . ?"

Crowley waved a hand, granting permission even as he made a mental note to keep an eye on this demon. He was too slick by half.

"Why did you send Hernandez and Boone to attack the door?"

The king of hell shrugged. "Entertainment value? I've been wanting to see this Gibbs character in action. There's a good chance we'll be meeting him again, and it's always wise to know your enemy. Plus, it never hurts to see what kind of defenses your opponents possess."

"So you expect Gibbs to kill our agents?"

"Gibbs or his people, yeah, I do."

"But Hernandez and Boone seem to be winning at the moment."

"Yeah, they do, don't they?" Crowley agreed, and turned his attention back to his phone.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Agent Caitlin Todd flickered in and out like a picture on a static-ridden television. "I'm sorry," she said. "Even with the summoning and the aid of the sigils in this room, it's difficult to manifest. I'm out of energy and I have to go now."

"But can you just tell me -?" one of the generals began.

Kate shot him a regretful look and blinked out as if she'd never been there.

A pensive silence filled the room and lasted until another of the uniformed men raised his hand, like a schoolchild. Dean nodded to him.

"What else is real? Vampires? Werewolves? Aliens? Bigfoot?"

"Well, vampires," Dean agreed, nodding to Benny.

Benny smiled at them, let his fangs show. The people who had drifted in and wound up standing close to him quickly backed away, clearing a wide circle.

"Y'all're hurtin' mah feelings," he complained good-naturedly.

"Werewolves," Sam added, giving the vampire an unamused glare. "Most of the creatures in folklore around the world have at least a basis in fact. Bigfoot, so far as we know, is a hoax, although it's never wise to completely discount something. As far as aliens go, well, you'd be more likely to know about that than we would."

"Yeah," Dean chimed in, giving them a charming grin. "Anything you want to tell us about Area 51?"

"Wouldn't be my first choice," Brightwell said wryly from his seat near the door.

"A'right, then. Let me ask you all another question." Dean took his time, looking from face to face, making sure he had their attention. "You know the truth now. You know what's out there. What are you going to do about it?"

That threw them. Clearly, none of them had thought that far ahead yet. A guy in a suit was first to answer - the head of the NSA maybe?

"We have to tell people," he said slowly. "We have to warn them. Let them know what's out there so they can protect themselves!"

"Really?" Dean frowned. "What kind of flowers y'like?"

"What kind of . . . ? Why?"

"I figured maybe we could bring you some. Hey, but don't worry. You're with the government, so you've probably got some really good health care. They'll probably pay for one of them high-class . . . uh . . . hey, Sam! What's the polite term for a nuthouse?"

"Sanitarium?" Sam asked, trying not to be amused.

"You think they won't believe me?" the official asked in a flat voice.

"You think they will?"

"At best, they'll think we've all gone mad." This was an admiral, a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "At worst, they'll think it's a ploy to seize power and turn America into a police state. God knows, there are enough paranoid people in the world as it is. If we try telling them ghosts and demons and monsters are real, they'll believe it's a giant conspiracy to take away their rights and turn them into slaves or something."

"So . . . " the head of the NSA was still feeling his way slowly. "Are you saying that we need to form a conspiracy to keep people from thinking that we've formed a conspiracy?"

"Ain't politics grand?" Dean grinned.

"And what if people did believe you," Sam added. "What would happen then?" He answered his own question. "Terror, panic, anarchy."

"So what are we supposed to _do_?" one of the military officers asked.

"You do what governments have always done," Dean said bluntly, all humor suddenly gone. "You stay out of it. You take care of the human threats and leave Hunting to the Hunters." He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Be nice if you'd stop trying to arrest us for it," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Well," a new voice spoke up behind him, "I see the Winchesters are making their sales pitch."

Everyone in the room turned to find Crowley lounging against the wall in the far corner, where the Devil's Trap didn't reach. Satisfied that he had their attention, the king of hell snagged a chair that was sitting there and dropped into it. "Before you go making any decisions, I suggest you listen to my counter-offer."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Pinned by the large man atop her, near-blinded by the rain, tensed against the sound of a gunshot that would end the world as she knew it and desperate to get free, Ziva fought like a madwoman. As he grinned down at her and lowered his knife towards her chest, she came up with a knife of her own and let his own motions impale his wrist on it. Where he should have fallen aside, writhing in pain, he barely flinched. Still, he did flinch and it gave her the opening she needed.

Bucking like an untamed horse, she gained a few scant inches of space between his body and hers. Grasping him by the shoulders, she swung her body sideways, locked her knees around his right arm and used her entire body like a lever against him. She _felt_ his arm snap. He should have been in agony. Instead, he just leaned close and whispered in her ear like a lover.

"You're a feisty little thing, aren't you?"

She shifted her grip, changed her position, using his body like a gymnast uses the uneven bars. Locking her knee around his head, she snapped his neck. He didn't react at all.

Across the courtyard there was the sound of a gunshot, muffled by the storm, and Ziva felt as if the sky had turned to glass and shattered. Rain fell in broken shards around her and the roar of the wind became the silence of an empty universe.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"You don't want to be making any deals here," Dean warned.

Crowley gave him a thin, insincere smile. "I think we should let the grown ups make their own decisions."

"Who or what the hell is that?" Trent Kort demanded, finally regaining some of his natural aggression after having been nearly eaten.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Dean said. "Allow me to make introductions. Asshole: Douche-bag. Douche-bag: Asshole."

"Allow _me,_" Crowley countered smoothly. "My name is Crowley, and I am the king of hell."

"I thought Lucifer was the king of hell?" someone asked.

Crowley sighed and glared at the Winchesters. "Really? You haven't even covered the apocalypse - that _I_ helped to avert, mind you - and the attendant regime changes upstairs and downstairs? What have you been doing? Playing Tiddlywinks?"

"Actually, we were just discussing how you kill various supernatural beings," Sam said. "Lucky you happened to show up. We'd just gotten to demons and we needed a volunteer from the audience."

"You think you can take me out, Moose? Really? Because it sure looked to me like your friend Gibbs is currently carrying that big nasty knife you like to flash around."

"I do not need a special weapon to deal with vermin such as you," Cas said, scowling at the demon in derision.

Crowley sighed as one horribly put-upon. "Well, if you're going to be like that I'll just go. I thought it'd be simpler to discuss this while we're all gathered together, but I suppose I can look these ladies and gentlemen up individually. Unless, of course, you really think you can protect them all. And their spouses. And their sons and daughters and illicit lovers and all the people that they consider near and dear." He cast his gaze around the room, at the V.I.P. audience full of people suddenly looking ill and borderline panicked. "Be seeing you," he mocked and snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened.

Blinking in stupefaction, Crowley snapped his fingers again, then glared at them all, then tried to stand and found himself stuck to his seat.

Dean was grinning and looking as insufferably smug as was humanly possible. "Devil's Trap on the bottom of the chair," he said. "Hey, Cas, you want to warm it up a little for our guest?"

The angel gestured towards the corner where Crowley sat and the temperature in the room climbed perceptibly.

Crowley frowned at them. "Was that supposed to make me uncomfortable?" he demanded, incredulous. "_Me_? The king of hell?"

"No," Sam said, "it was just supposed to activate the heat-sensitive ink on the ceiling." He looked up and Crowley tipped his head back to find he was now sitting on a small Devil's Trap underneath a large Devil's Trap.

"Welcome to the party," Dean said. "We've been expecting you."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS_

The . . . _person?_ . . . holding Tony put a gun to his chest and turned to leer at his boss. The force of the winds pinning him to the wall abated, it seemed, as the man's attention turned elsewhere. Ignoring the agony shooting up his right arm and the nausea roiling his stomach, Tony took the opportunity to knock the gun aside with his left arm. Clumsy with shock and pain, he fisted his hand in the man's shirt, pulled their heads together and felt the other man's nose flatten against his forehead, even as the gun went off with deafening force next to his ear.

It was like knocking his head into a granite wall. Lights exploded in his vision and he felt himself slump boneless towards the ground. He felt strangely detached, as if he were standing outside his own body watching - a dispassionate observer.

The wind had dropped McGee too, and he launched himself at Tony's attacker, jumping on the man's back and doing his geeky damnedest to twist the guy's head off. The intruder pulled him off and cast him aside like a naughty kitten.

And then Gibbs was just _there_. standing between the assailant and his fallen second-in-command, holding the Winchesters' magic demon-killing knife and looking grim as death.

The second attacker left off wrestling with Ziva, came to his feet and turned to see what was going on. It was his undoing. Tony's ninja rose behind him like an avenging angel. With the wind howling from her six, she reached under her blouse at the back of her waistband, came out with her silver shuriken and let it fly. Her opponent screamed in sudden agony and staggered around the wind- and rain-swept courtyard clawing at his back, trying to reach the weapon to pull it out. Ziva pulled off her Star of David on its woven steel chain and stalked after him like a hunting cat.

Closer at hand, Gibbs and the guy who'd attacked Tony were glaring at one another and having a conversation that Tony would later put down to shock and concussion.

"You know the crash didn't kill them, right? They burned to death. Slowly. I stood and watched and I _enjoyed_ it. They were crying and screaming and begging for help. They called for you. Even in the depths of hell, even in the midst of the pain and the fear and the despair, I always have that one, happy little memory. I think of it, and it makes me smile."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"You don't want to do anything rash," Crowley warned them. "Power vacuum can be dangerous. There's all sorts of nasty things that could rise to the top if I wasn't around to hold them down. Better the devil you know, and all, you know."

"Are you offering us . . . a deal?" Dean asked. "An agreement in exchange for sparing your miserable life?"

"I'm sure we could work something out," the king of hell said cagily.

"Sam?"

Sam rose and took a folder that Castiel offered him. Instead of addressing Crowley, he turned to the rest of the assembly. "I believe that some of you have some experience with contract law?" He passed around copies of a single sheet that he had prepared in advance. "This is the agreement we're planning to offer our old . . . _friend_ . . . Crowley. Please look it over and tell me if you have any objections and if you see any way at all that there could be a loophole or room for misrepresentation."

The gathered dignitaries took several minutes to examine the short, simple document.

"Most straight-forward contract I've ever seen," one of them said finally. Several others nodded in agreement.

"So can _I_ see?" Crowley demanded.

Sam finally gave him a copy and the demon read it in disbelief.

"Seriously? No interference in the United States Government? The _whole_ government? I already have contracts with some of those people, you know!"

"Clause C, subsection 3," Sam said. "This agreement will not affect existing contracts but completely precludes any future contracts, by you yourself or by any agent acting on your behalf, with or without your direct knowledge, for a period of two-hundred-and-fifty years. Take particular note of Sections II (which forbids any attempt by you or any agent working with, for, or under you either directly or indirectly, to harm anyone in any way involved in this agreement either for revenge or as coercion or for any other reason), and III (which extends the same protections to everyone who is in any way related to the people covered in Section II, whether by blood, law, or sentiment)."

"Just to be clear, you realize that this contract would only continue to be valid for so long as I remain king of hell?" Crowley sighed. "So do I have any options or should I just bend over?"

Dean smiled.

"Okay," the demon said, "but you still have a problem here. This is basically a contract between me and the United States Government. Neither of you nitwits is a legal representative for the government, so who's going to seal the deal of their behalf?"

"That's a valid point," Sam conceded, as several of the lawyers among the gathering nodded in agreement. He turned to the group again. "As far as I can tell, if you all agree to this, any one of you should be able to act as a stand-in for the government. What do you think?"

"What are we offering him in exchange for leaving everyone alone again?" one of them who was clearly _not_ a lawyer asked.

"We're going to release him and give him fifteen seconds to get away before Cas kills him outright."

"Sounds like a good deal to me. But are we sure he'll honor his end of the bargain? I mean, after we let him go, what's to stop him from coming after us anyway?"

"Crowley?" Sam deferred the question.

"Please," the demon said. "We're talking about hell here. We honor our deals. If a deal is broken, word gets out and then no one wants to make any more deals. It's a question of good business practices. And, honestly, the standard response you lot use when you get caught cheating and breaking deals doesn't really work downstairs."

"Standard response?" someone asked.

"Hold a press conference, cry, claim you've 'gone astray' and ask Jesus to forgive you, expecting your spouse or any other humans you've screwed over to follow suit."

"But what if he _doesn't_ honor his end of the bargain?" the questioner persisted.

"We hunt him down and gank him," Dean said.

"Okay. That works for me."

"So who's going to seal the deal?" Dean asked.

"I'll do it," Kort volunteered, glaring at them. "So what do I have to do? Spit? Shake hands? Sign my name in blood? What?"

Dean grinned. "Not exactly . . . ."

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

Gibbs shifted his grip on the knife in his hand, holding the other man's eye.

"I do have regrets, though," the stranger said. He leaned in close to the former Marine, voice taunting. "Sometimes I lie awake for hours imagining other ways I could have made your women scream."

In the near-constant flashes of lightning, Gibbs' movements looked jerky and uneven, like a length of film from an old stop-motion reel played too slow. In reality, he struck like a snake, burying the Winchesters' knife up to its hilt in the intruder's chest. The man looked down. There was only a single lightning flash to register his expression - surprise and shock and horror and pain - and then his eyes and mouth lit with an unearthly red glow. He threw his head back, let out a high-pitched scream that was quickly lost in the wind, and fell to the ground, suddenly dark and empty and dead.

"Gibbs!" Ziva was screaming. Gibbs tore his shocked gaze from the body and looked around for her. She was just a few feet behind him, clinging to her assailant's back like a child taking a piggyback ride. She had her necklace wrapped around the man's throat in what should have been a deadly twist, but he fought and raged against her like a madman.

Gibbs pulled the knife out of the body at his feet, took a single step forward and cut the other attacker's throat. Again there was the unearthly scream and the bizarre light effect. It was as if his life force was spilling out of him in the form of a hellish red light, pouring out of his eyes and nose and mouth and leaking from his slit throat along with his blood. In an instant it was over and Gibbs was left alone in the storm-ravaged courtyard with two dead bodies, an injured second-in-command and two spent and shell-shocked agents.

Knowing his priorities, he lowered himself to sit behind DiNozzo, gently raising the injured man up and pulling him back to lean against his chest. Ziva came over and leaned down close, running a gentle hand across Tony's cheek. Her hair had come undone in the fight and hung dripping down either side of her face. Her eyes found Gibbs'.

"I impaled his hand on my knife," she said. "I broke his arm. I broke his _neck_. The only thing that stopped him was my shuriken. Abby carved a Devil's Trap on it."

McGee staggered the few steps between them, looking like a man who was just inches from a nervous breakdown. "Their eyes. The light," he said. "Did you see . . .? Did _I_ see . . . ?"

Gibbs sighed and spoke gently.

"It was the lightning, Tim," he said. "It was only a trick of the lightning."


	21. There'll Be Peace When You Are Done

Author's Note: Well, here we are finally at the end of the story. It got a LOT longer than I had ever intended. I can never thank you all enough for following and favoriting my story and for your kind reviews! I've left it open for a sequel, which will undoubtedly be AU for, probably, both series. I'll try to keep the characters as true as I can, but at this point I have absolutely no idea where either of these shows is headed in the next season so . . . . It'll be a little while, not sure how long, before I start another epic of this sort. I really do have a lot of other things I've been putting off (like painting my house and trying to find my yard and I'm supposed to be working on a novel right now _shhh! Don't tell!_) It's been so much fun playing with these characters, though, and having so many people joining in the game just made it that much more irresistible. A special thanks to everyone who's been following this from the beginning and thank you to SkyHighFan for checking over this chapter before I posted it. All errors are mine alone.

Disclaimer: I did NOT throw the baby kittens outside and abandon them! I let them go out to play because they wanted to and I counted to make sure they all came back in. Now will someone PLEASE make the mother cat stop looking at me like that?

. . .

Chapter 21: There'll Be Peace When You Are Done

. . .

"I believe," Jeremy Brightwell said, "that what we need to do is to develop a protocol for handling possibly supernatural crises that develop in situations involving the government or the armed forces. We've made a start today by learning exactly what is out there. However, I expect it will take months, if not years, to hammer out the details."

"You're not planning to keep us prisoner all that time?" Dean asked, alarmed by the idea and ready to have Cas angel-air them all out of there.

"No, of course not, though I do believe it would be in the government's interest for us to maintain contact and for you to be involved in the process. I believe we can make it in your best interest as well. Sort of like a supernatural think tank?"

"That'd be Sam's department," Dean said immediately. "He's the brains of the operation." He turned to his brother. "Whaddya think, Sasquatch? You wanna help 'em work out a protocol for weird?"

"I'm sure we could come up with something," Sam said. "For starters, I'd suggest warding all federal buildings against the most credible threats - demons being top of the list."

"You don't think that'll tip people off that we're up to something?" one of the suits asked dubiously. "Painting weird symbols all over the White House and the Treasury building and such?"

"Actually," it was Brightwell who answered, "actually the White House is already heavily warded, and has been ever since it was first built. The sigils are hidden in among the carvings and there are charms and gris-gris bags tucked away inside pillars and in other odd corners. Most of the other older buildings in Washington were originally warded as well, but over time a lot of the protections have broken down due to weather, vandalism, building repairs and renovations. Anything that can disrupt the lines of the protection sigils. There used to be a highly-secretive organization that took care of such things. Something happened to them in the mid-1950's sometime, though, so any building that went up since then is completely unprotected. I agree that renovating and expanding those protections is paramount."

"Even Congress?" one of the attendants asked, voice skeptical.

"Is there a reason we shouldn't ward Congress?" Sam asked.

"Well, that would mean that demons didn't have access anymore, right?"

"Yeah. And . . . ?"

"I don't know. It just seems wrong to deny anyone access to Congress. I mean, evil constituents are still constituents, you know? Especially if they're registered voters."

"Christo!" Dean said. The man didn't react. "Huh. Politics _is_ screwy!"

The discussion was interrupted by a pounding on the door. At a nod from Brightwell, one of the guards opened it, letting in a barrage of noise and a wind that carried rainwater halfway across the bunker. Ziva David stood on the other side, dripping wet, grim and determined.

"We've killed two men who attacked the bunker. Agent DiNozzo is injured and we are now taking the full brunt of the storm. I'm sorry, but we need to come inside now and take shelter. If necessary, you can continue your meeting when DiNozzo has been taken care of and the storm is past."

Dean glanced at Cas. The angel nodded almost imperceptibly and was gone. Dean moved towards the door, where some of the guards were helping the bedraggled NCIS agents into the building. Gibbs and McGee were carrying Tony, neither willing to relinquish their hold on their fellow agent. They lowered him gently to the floor by the wall as someone slammed the heavy door, shutting out the storm again.

"What happened to Tony?" Dean demanded, dropping to one knee next to the wounded agent.

"Broken arm. Possible concussion. Shock." Gibbs' eyes caught the elder Winchester's. With their bodies shielding their hands from the rest of the room, he slipped the demon knife, handle first, back to its rightful owner. "Good knife," he said softly.

Dean took it with a nod and tucked it away.

"Someone attacked us?" one of the officials asked. "Where did they come from? How did they get here? How did they get past the SEALS?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, you know SEALS," he said. "Toss 'em a bucket of fish and a beach ball and they're distracted for hours."

"Huh?" The guy's own eyes crossed, then his expression suddenly cleared as he caught up with things. "Oh!"

"Yeah."

Sam tapped his brother on the arm and edged into the conversation. "This guy," he indicated the guard behind him, "is a former Army ranger. He's got a basic first aid kit and some medical training."

Gibbs and McGee reluctantly released their hold on Tony and some of the other guards stepped in to move the crowd back and give the medic room to work. As they stepped away, Gibbs caught Dean's arm and led him aside. Sam followed.

"Can I ask you a question?" Gibbs said, voice soft. "Just hypothetically speaking?"

"Shoot."

"Okay, so, when you kill a bad person they go to hell and become a demon. But what happens when you kill a demon?"

"I don't think anybody really knows," Dean said. "Some people think they're just gone, into oblivion. Same with angels. And monsters in Purgatory. Mostly, when you kill a monster in Purgatory, they just come back to life a little while later. But not always." He turned to find Benny beside him. "Remember that one Vetala? Every time we'd gank her, she'd just turn up again a few days later, meaner than she was before. Then, after we'd killed her a couple dozen times or so, she was just gone. We'd gotten so used to her attacking us, Cas even went looking for her. Couldn't find any trace of her anywhere."

Benny nodded.

"There is one theory," Sam offered. "I came across it in an old journal I was reading a couple of weeks before all this started. It was, um, somebody who studies things like that. It was written in the late 1940's. They were concerned with what had become of Adolf Hitler. They'd gathered some intel that, once he was dead, his transformation into a demon took a very short time. Because of his natural charisma and his leadership skills, though, as soon as he was a full demon the demons who were running hell at the time had him immediately killed."

"They were afraid he'd take over," Dean nodded.

"And the theory?" Gibbs prompted.

"The theory was that, when a demon is killed, they're released back into the cycle of reincarnation to start working off their karma. The author of the journal I was reading reckoned that Hitler, at that time, was most likely a gastro-intestinal parasite trying to work his way up to an infectious bacteria."

"So, say, for instance, a murdering drug lord-turned-demon gets killed . . . ?"

"I wouldn't really know," Sam said apologetically.

"Yeah," Dean chimed in, "but, you know how dogs get worms sometimes? Those worms gotta come from somewhere."

Gibbs considered it, then nodded, satisfied. "That works for me."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

Tony blinked and the room spun around him. He was in an airplane, he realized. _It's a Gulfstream_, he thought, and a pain deeper than physical ran through him as he remembered another time, on another aircraft, saying that to Paula Cassidy; pretending not to hear Gibbs scolding Kate for playing matchmaker.

His body was heavy, his right arm like lead inside a mass of bandages. _A sprint_, he thought. _Or a squint. Or something like that._ The air seemed thick around him and his thoughts were as slow and as meandering as syrup. _Musta been good drugs._ There was a buzzing in his ears that sounded oddly like Led Zeppelin. He turned his head to the right and found Dean Winchester in the seat next to him.

Dean sat straight up, staring forward intensely. His face was white, his hands held the armrests in a death grip and he was humming Ramble On as if his life depended on it.

"Dean dislikes flying intensely. He only agreed to get on the plane to look after you until you're safely back in Washington."

Tony turned his head to the left and Jimmy Novak was standing there in his rumpled trench coat and backwards tie.

_Why do I need to be looked after?_ he thought and Novak answered him, even though he hadn't voiced the question.

"You do not. Your arm is going to heal well and quickly, with no lasting damage. However, it was necessary to provide Dean with an incentive to board one of the aircraft. Otherwise, he was determined to attempt to swim back to the mainland."

Dean paused in his humming just long enough to say, "Shaddup!"

_How can you be here?_ he wondered. _I thought you escaped from Kort. You can't be here. Are you really here?_

"No, of course not. I'm just a product of your drugged imagination. You're hallucinating."

"But Dean was talking to you too." Tony managed to get that out as actual words.

"I'm hallucinating too," Dean told him.

"Why are you ha- ha- hacullitaining? Ing? Thing?"

"Dude. The drugs you're on are just that good."

"Cool!"

"I'm glad you think so. Man." Dean's fingers clinched even tighter on the armrests. His hands were white and had to be cramping. "I _hate_ airplanes!"

Tony gave him a loopy grin. "It's a Gulfstream!"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . ._

"I'm going to need to scruff you both up for your evil alter-egos' ID photos," Abby said.

It was the morning after the Winchester's meeting with the government. Gibbs was in a meeting in Vance's office and Ziva had gone to Bethesda to pick up Tony, who had once again spent a night there for observation. Abby and McGee were working on the cover story they were going to use to clear the Winchesters' name.

Dean gave her a seductive leer. "Darlin', you can scruff me up any time!"

Benny, standing behind Abby and out of her line of sight, bared his fangs. Dean surreptitiously flipped him off. Sam sighed.

"So how are you figuring on this working, anyway," Sam asked, determined to ignore his brother and Dean's monster friend.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've created these fictional characters to pin the murders on, and I get that. But I don't see how you're going to pull it off. Hunters do this kind of thing all the time and it only works, when it does work, because we go with stories that aren't going to get a lot of scrutiny. For example, we go into some small town claiming to be FBI and the local cops are going to be too busy resenting us to question our authenticity. But the serial-killer Winchester brothers was big news. The Winchester brothers _not_ being serial killers is going to be even bigger news. Reporters and cops and true-crime buffs are going to be looking at this seven ways from Sunday. What conclusions are they going to come to when they can't find any historical trace of the wicked Campbells?"

"They will find historical traces."

"But how?"

McGee had been sitting at a computer with his back to the room. He spun around now and joined the conversation, looking pleased with himself.

"Official records are easy. Birth records, social security numbers, school records -"

"School records!" Sam said. "Okay, consider those. You say, 'the real killers were the Campbell brothers, who attended Skyline Elementary in Springfield, Missouri during the 1987 school year.' Other people who attended Skyline Elementary go, 'hey! I was there that year! I wonder if I knew them?' Then they get out their yearbooks to look and . . . no Campbell brothers!"

"They don't appear in any yearbooks," McGee acknowledged. "Their father was a paranoid, anti-government anarchist who insisted that his sons not be photographed or listed in any kind of yearbook or school publication. There are letters in their files to that effect at each school they attended. But there are also teachers - mostly retired now - who remember them. There will be students who come forward to say that they remembered them too."

Sam frowned. "Government agents?"

"Power of suggestion," Dean countered. "You've chosen big schools with crowded classes and high turnover in enrollments, right? And had them move around a lot, like we did."

McGee nodded.

"So people will remember them because they think they should remember them. They'll remember them because they want to - it's exciting, having gone to school with a serial killer. And they'll confuse them with other kids who passed through and were gone."

"Yeah, that's right. We've also 'unsealed' their juvenile records. All the crimes we've attributed to them were real crimes, reported in the local papers. None were memorable enough that they would have stood out in the minds of the local authorities or lawyers or judges involved and the real juveniles in each case are now dead."

Abby, using stage makeup, finished 'scruffing them up' and took a number of pictures of each of them.

"You know," she said, "you're right about being big news. You're going to be celebrities now, and not in a 'wanted dead or alive' kind of way. What are you going to do about that?"

"Yeesh!" Dean grimaced. "Hide out, I guess, until it dies down."

"You could probably sell your life story. They'd make a book or a movie out of it and you'd be rich and famous. You could be the next Kardashians."

Sam just chuckled and shook his head.

"You know," Dean said, "I'm pretty sure the Kardashians are something supernaturally gankable. I just haven't figured out what yet."

"You know what you _could_ do, though?" McGee asked. "You could sell magazine articles about true ghosts and write your monster hunts up as fiction and sell them to horror magazines. Also," he stopped and looked a little bashful, "you know I went through your computer and the notebooks in your car after we arrested you, right?"

They both nodded.

"Well, you have mountains and mountains of historical and genealogical research about obscure places around the country. Like, every stone in every graveyard in Clinton County, Georgia. With just a little effort, you could compile that into research manuals for genealogists. There are specialized publishers who handle that sort of thing, or you could sell them online as print-on-demand books. You'd be surprised at how many people buy those sorts of things, and they pay good money for them, too."

"You know, I'd never thought of that." Sam squinted and pursed his lips, considering. "It might be worth looking into. Thanks for the suggestion."

The door to Abby's lab slid open and Gibbs strolled in carrying a CaffPow! "How's it going?" he asked.

"Good. I'll have the last of the paperwork on the wicked Campbell brothers finished within the hour and McGee has been seeding the Internet with old web trails for them, giving them all online presences."

"Vance and the director of the FBI have called a joint news conference for tomorrow afternoon at one. Are we going to be ready to roll by then?"

"Ready and anxious." Abby turned her mega-watt smile on Dean and Sam. "By tomorrow night, you'll be free and completely exonerated! Isn't that exciting?"

"Gonna be weird," Dean said with a wry grin, and Sam nodded his agreement.

"Well, for right now," Gibbs said, "you're still our guests."

"That the PC term for 'prisoner'?" Dean asked.

Gibbs grinned. "Something like that. Brightwell wants an inventory of what's in your trunk and an explanation of what each item is used for. Do you have a problem with that?"

The brothers exchanged a look, then Dean shrugged. "I guess not. You're not planning on confiscating anything?"

"As I understand it, once we spread the word that you're no longer wanted, you're free to leave with all your possessions and we're not even to question whether those possessions are legal or not."

"Sounds good to me. You wanna do this now?"

"Yeah, let's get it out of the way. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day and tonight we're all invited to a dinner up in Director Vance's office. Tobias and his director from the FBI are going to be there too. One last chance, I think, to rub their noses in the fact that we caught you and they didn't."

Calling McGee to join them, Gibbs left with the Winchesters and Abby and Benny were alone. Benny stood for a long while, just watching her work at the computer, basking in the warmth whenever she turned to shoot him a smile. Finally he wandered over and stood close above her.

"You say you like vampires, cherie," he said finally. "You know, funny thing about vampires? Vampires, they got really keen senses. A vampire can hear a woman's heart beat, smell a woman's own, special scent, pick up the changes in her body chemistry that mean a woman's in love."

Abby shot him a sideways glance, puzzled and amused and disbelieving. "Are you saying you think I'm in love?" she asked skeptically.

Benny grinned. "Oh, I _know_ you're in love," he said. "But," wistfully, "not with me."

She glanced, almost without realizing it, towards the doorway. "You think -? Oh, no! We're just . . . ."

"Can I tell you a secret, Abby?"

". . . okay?"

"When you love somebody, it don't matter how long you got with 'em. You can be together a thousand years and, when it's over, the one thing you realize is, it wasn't nearly long enough. Seize what you have while you have a chance. Don't let life pass you by, pretty lady."

She looked at him now with moist eyes. "What was her name?" she asked.

"Andrea," he said with a flash of sorrow, a depth of grief that he rarely let show.

Without a word, Abby stood and wrapped him in a warm, gentle hug.

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"So, I can't tell you _why_," Dean said to Tony, "but, if you ever really want to get to Kort, just make a kissy face at him."

"A kissy face?"

"Trust me. It's hilarious!"

"The news is going to be on in MTAC in less than ten minutes," Ziva said, hurrying by them with her arms loaded. "Can one of you help me carry this popcorn?" She handed two big bags off to Sam, who had chivalrously volunteered, and harried the rest of them along. "Come on. Come on! We're going to miss it. Are you . . . _what_ are you doing, McGee?"

They turned to look at the resident computer geek. He was pouring a thick line of white crystals out of a canister, surrounding his desk.

"You're warding your computer against ghosts?" Dean asked.

"No," McGee said, sounding smug. "I'm warding my computer against Abby."

"Hate to tell you this, McSaline," Tony said, "but Abby can actually step over salt."

"Abby can, sure. But Abby wants me to think that my computer is being messed with by ghosts, who _can't_! So, if I ward it against ghosts, I ward it against Abby. And, with this case over, it's only a matter of time until she forgets the whole thing and moves on and then I won't have to worry about it any more."

"Either way, it works," Sam said. "As long as no one breaks your salt line."

"Why would anyone break my salt line?"

_Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . ._

"Dean and Sam Winchester. In the past eight years they've topped the FBI's Most Wanted list three times. They've been accused of unspeakable crimes, evaded dozens of local and federal law enforcement agencies and were reportedly killed twice by gunfire and once in an explosion. Today, the Winchesters' bizarre story takes yet another, completely unexpected twist. My name is Sonia Sutherland and this is ZNN Headline News."

"Man, are those the suckiest mug shots they could find?" Dean bitched from his seat in the front row in MTAC.

Tony threw a piece of popcorn at him. "They're mug shots. They're supposed to be sucky. Shut up."

The news' opening graphics ended and the picture shifted from the anchor, sitting in front of Dean and Sam's mugshots, to Vance and the FBI director at their press conference earlier that day. The Director of the FBI was reading from a prepared statement.

". . . to announce that our agency, in a joint investigation with NCIS, has completely exonerated the Winchester brothers of the crimes of which they stand accused."

The press conference erupted into a shouting match, rival reporters trying to make their questions heard, and the screen cut back to the news anchor.

"It is a tale worthy of Hollywood: The story of two sets of brothers. On the one hand, Dean and Sam Winchester, motherless sons of an often-absent father, growing up with only each other to depend on, raised in an obscure religious tradition to believe completely in the reality of ghosts and monsters and demons and in the need for heroes to combat them in the defense of innocent humanity. On the other hand, the Campbell brothers, cousins the Winchesters did not even know existed. They, too, were raised with a set of obscure beliefs. They believed in violence, and greed, and murder."

The group gathered in MTAC watched in rapt silence as the story unfolded on the movie-sized screen. The Winchesters were the top story of the hour, and the anchor took her time as she explained the criminal history involved, re-drawn to lay everything at the feet of the fictional Campbells. They put up the Campbells' mug shots side-by-side with the Winchesters', showing off the almost but not complete resemblance. Visiting experts discussed the evidence that had come up, clearing the Winchesters, and a pop psychologist psychoanalyzed all five of the young men in question.

"How was that, Duck?" Gibbs asked.

Ducky, who had done the psychological profile on the imaginary killers, nodded, satisfied. "Yes, he made all the assumptions that I intended for him to."

They ended the segment by interviewing an elderly lady who was, they said, Jason Campbell's kindergarten teacher. "I hate to say it," she tutted, shaking her head, "but even at the age of five, I could just tell that there was something not right with that child!"

Dean snickered.

The screen went dark and everyone rose and stretched. Vance turned to the Winchester brothers.

"Congratulations. You're free men. What will you do now?"

"We're leaving for Kansas in the morning," Sam told him. "We'll probably just lay low for a while and wait for all the publicity to die down. If we can, you know. Barring another apocalypse or such."

"Tonight," Tony said, "we're going to celebrate. Pizza and old horror movies at my place. But first, we're all going to get our anti-possession tattoos made permanent."

"We are?" McGee asked, dismayed.

"Yes, Timmy!" Abby sang. "We are! Ducky and Jimmy, too! And then we'll all have matching tattoos and it'll be _cool_!"

"I don't know," he waffled, torn between the scientist he'd been all his life, who didn't want anything to do with superstitions, and the scared little boy who was sitting with his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears, pretending that nothing he'd seen on Johnston Atoll was really real. "Anti-possession tattoos? Really? I mean, don't you think that's a little Dark Ages?"

"It'll be like Lord of the Rings," Tony said. "The Fellowship of the Nine, remember?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The movie, Elf Lord! The movie! Remember? After they finished filming, the actors who played the members of the Fellowship all got the Elvish rune for 9 tattooed on them. To commemorate the fact that they played those parts."

"So . . . we're not getting the anti-possession tattoos to protect us from being possessed," McGee reasoned. "We're getting them to commemorate the fact that . . . uh . . . ."

"That we caught the Winchesters when no one else could!"

"Right. Okay. Yeah, okay. I guess I could live with that."

"Would you like to join us, Director?" Ziva asked.

He smiled. "Thank you, but no. You go ahead. I had a dream about my wife last night and she told me I should be spending more time with my kids."

_NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . ._

"I'll take you down to the garage to get your car," McGee offered as they passed through the bullpen, empty in the early evening with no hot cases going on.

Dean jingled the keys to his beloved Impala and grinned eagerly. "I gotta look her over before I drive her anywhere. I'm telling you, DiNozzo, broken arm or no broken arm, I'm gonna kick your ass if you messed her up when you towed her!"

"I'll meet you all in the parking lot," Abby said. "I want to go by my lab."

"I will go with you," Ziva offered, and the two women turned towards the stairs.

"Thanks! I just want to get my Kindle. Remember I told you about those pulp horror novels I found with an angel character named Castiel? I thought it might be fun to read them, so I've been downloading them all day. I figure I'll start them tomorrow, since we're off. After I sleep late."

"Tell me if they're good and maybe I'll read them too!"

When the others had left, Tony hung back. "You coming boss?"

The lead agent gave his second-in-command a faint but warm smile. "Yeah, I'll be along in just a few minutes. Just got a couple things I want to finish up first. You go ahead and I'll catch up."

Tony nodded and caught the next elevator and Gibbs was alone in the big room. He walked over to his team's area and looked down at the thick, white ring on the floor.

"Haven't you messed with McGee enough?" he asked.

He listened. He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed up through the skylight, tipped his head from side to side and made a show of considering, as if his capitulation was not a foregone conclusion.

"Oh, all right," he said finally. "Just don't break anything. I'm going to need him on my next case, you know."

He reached out one foot and drew a line through the salt circle.

"You spoil her, you know," a gentle, amused voice spoke from behind him.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs turned to the warm and well-loved presence that he had thought for so long was simply a product of his desperate imagination. "Well, yeah," he said with a crooked grin. "That's what daddies do."

. . .

The End

Final Author's Note: So . . . Gibbs is psychic. And he's now spent two entire episodes talking to Mike Franks' ghost PLUS the whole "Life Before His Eyes" episode, so I'm calling it canon! Thank you all again, so much, for joining this story and I hope to see you on the flip side!


End file.
